


Forever and Never

by DepressedDoe



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: Cheating, Choices have consequences, Enemies to Lovers, Exploration of powers without too much explanation, F/F, Friendship, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, I do my best to rationalize/fix/explain inconsistencies between Before the Storm and OG LIS, Like lots and lots of time travel until even the time travelers get lost, Maximum Victory - Freeform, Maxine "Max" Caulfield Still Has Powers, Mental Health Issues, Minor Maxine "Max" Caulfield/Chloe Price, Other characters have super powers but I don't want to spoil anything, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Powerful Max Caulfield, Sad with a Happy Ending, Slow Burn, Terminator Max Caulfield, Time Travel, things are gonna get weird
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:00:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 38,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21606463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DepressedDoe/pseuds/DepressedDoe
Summary: "I fancied you'd return the way you said,But I grow old and I forget your name.(I think I made you up inside my head.)"~ Sylvia Plath "Mad Girl's Love Song"After a millennia of fighting fate on all fronts, Max tries again.
Relationships: Maxine "Max" Caulfield/Chloe Price, Maxine "Max" Caulfield/Victoria Chase, Rachel Amber/Chloe Price
Comments: 53
Kudos: 76





	1. End of an Era

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, everybody! I've read so many Life is Strange fan fics over the years trying to fill the void after playing the game, and I thought it was finally time I try to publish what I've had bouncing around my head. This is my first fan fic, so apologies for any formatting errors and just errors in general. I'll be learning and editing as we go.
> 
> Any critiques/reactions are more than welcome. This is my first attempt at sharing/publishing anything non school related, and I would like write professionally one day.
> 
> I'll be updating a new chapter Mon/Wed/Fri.
> 
> Hope you like it! :)

"I have emotional motion sickness  
I try to stay clean and live without  
And I want to know what would happen  
If I surrender to the sound  
Surrender to the sound"  
Phoebe Bridgers ~ Motion Sickness

## Chapter One: Max

The timeline shudders under my calloused hands as I follow it through the darkness and into Arcadia Bay. What’s left of Arcadia Bay. Only the unlucky ever discover destruction has a scent. Tearing apart an old town is a bit like cutting into a half-desiccated lemon. The shattered concrete, shredded paneling, and splintered furniture all have their own smells you never really appreciate until they are mixed with ozone and salt and blood. 

There aren’t many things I remember anymore, but I remember Arcadia Bay. I remember dragging bodies out of homes, praying for the first time to try and save friends or family and all the while knowing what’s waiting in the wreckage. Even before, I remember the pirates that raided these shores centuries ago. Some things stick.

I kick a lump of asphalt. Great clumps are torn from the highway through town. The still sparking sign for Two Whales is embedded in the diner. A trio of cars are crumpled together as if they were made of nothing but aluminum foil. And through it all, in the distance, the girls’ old junker is picking its way through town. My hand rests at the comfortable weight at my side.

The two girls and their truck shimmer in the after storm heat. It only gets worse as they get closer, until it would be hard to tell who is who if I didn’t already know. Taking a step forward, I wave my hand, and the old truck rusts away to nothing in the wind. Chloe and Other Max fall to the ground. A tense of my legs, and power that was once there launches me down the street towards them. Other Max scrambles away from me, but Chloe comes to fight, so the sweet fool is the first to die again, after everything. She collapses to the ground, a third eye opened in her forehead.

“Chloe,” Other Max screams, arm raising, but my second shot tears through her wrist, and her hand falls to the ground.

I put my third bullet in her gut and a fourth through her heart.

Even though I’m ready for the hard reset, she still sends me back a few steps before I press forward through the rewind. The bullet that pierced her heart floats through the air past me until it reaches where I shot it. Time once again takes its normal course. Other Max collapses to the ground, her stump going reflexively to her stomach. A laugh too dark to ever leave any eighteen-year-old spills out of her mouth. She makes no move to fight. The old ones never do.

“You brought me back. Why? Why did you bring me back?” She laughs at my silence, “Do you know where I was before this?”

“No,” I lie.

“I was standing right there, up at the lighthouse, watching as the atmosphere caught fire and an asteroid wider than the horizons came crashing down. It hit. I died. And yet there I was, watching again. Again, and again, and again. And you know what? After everything, I stayed there. Because after all the shit I’ve seen, that was the best case scenario. You want to kill me? Well good fucking luck.”

I crouch down in front of her, one hand touching her cheek. The skin under my fingertips turns grey and soft like wet cardboard. With my other hand, I close her eyes, and I show her almost everything. I show her the web of time stretched to the breaking point under the desires of too many spiders. I show her the world I’ve created. I show her Chloe. Tears well up at the corners of her eyes.

“Go on,” she says, “After everything, it will be a blessing.”

And so she rots away to nothing in my arms. A thousand years pass in a second. I straighten up, take one last look at Chloe lying crumpled on the pavement, and I pluck this godforsaken timeline from existence.

* * * * *

I open my eyes in the mirrored safe room fifty stories below Prescott Laboratories. My reflections stare back at me from the walls, the ceiling, their own reflections extending onto a chain until they vanish in infinity’s green mist. Sean stands before The Artifact. His outstretched hand rests on the black covering that hides it from sight, but nothing can stop the noise that is no sound at all.

“Is it done?” he asks, his voice an amalgamation of long lost accents.

“It is.”

“I am sorry.”

“Save it. We both knew it had to be done.”

“And yet the knowing never makes it any easier, does it?” he sighs and tears himself away from The Artifact, “As promised, I’ve located Mark Jefferson.”

“Where?”

“I can take you, if you’ll let me. I’d very much like to tag along.”

“I thought you said you were done with him?”

“What purpose is a hound when the fox is already caught and skinned?” Prescott says, “Yes, I am finished with him, ready to be rid of him. You are not the only one who lost loved ones to Mark Jefferson, Maxine.”

“Spare me the shit. You’ve got no one but yourself to blame for Nathan.”

“Of course. But did Abraham love Isaac any less on the road to sacrifice? No. And I loved my son. It’s true. Laugh all you want, it’s true. You forget yourself, still young in my eyes, and there are others you’ve yet to meet to whom I myself am nothing more than a child.

“In the last few millennia you’ve experienced the initial pain all like us first feel. The pain of our second birth. And you, understandably, feel now there is no living with the pain, so you separate yourself entirely. Withdraw into the shadows. In another few thousand years, you will begin to understand the pain of love which you recoil from now is all that is worth living for. 

“In several hundred thousand years more, you will begin to shed your immaturity, the unconscious view that what you see and feel is all there is. You will realize that great as we are, powerful as we are, our love is no more than the love between the millions of people living and dead and still to be born. Moreover, what is our love against the combined weight of all of theirs? Nothing. Nothing at all.

“More than you realize, I’m proud of you. It has been eons since I had a surrogate, but I have never seen one of our kind grow in both power and wisdom as quickly as you have. Most--even those who are blessed with the power to redo their actions--never pass their first test,” Sean glances at his watch, “Now, a standstill, if you please, and we’ll be just in time to save Mark’s first victim.”

Time weaves between my fingers and hardens there. Sean Prescott smiles. Though not bound, he is slowed, and I watch each muscle pull at the corners of his mouth, raising them up overhead and bulging with effort. Unbidden from the strain of the power burning in my blood, exhaustion turns my stomach to lead and my body to jelly. Time manipulation comes easy now. I haven’t had a nosebleed in, well, God knows how long. Prescott certainly doesn’t if he’s been alive as long as he claims. I lost track of time a long time ago, and time is kinda my whole thing.

I just want a moment of peace. A moment to rest. 

I close my eyes, and flickers of light like burning Polaroids dance in the darkness behind my eyes. Scents of chlorine and stale cigarette smoke lingers in the air. I am--warm. She is there, so close I can feel her without opening my eyes, close enough to make my skin buzz with the memories of a million lifetimes that will never be.

 _No. No, no, no._ I reach for my powers, but they shrivel in my head, brain dead and helpless to do anything but lay here next to her, motionless so as not to wake her. I don’t want to hear her voice. I can’t. I can’t hear her voice. Not now.

“Woah. Max, what’s wrong?” 

She’s there, hand on my shoulder, pulling me into her, and she’s so warm. Heat pours from her heart and through her fingertips and into me until I have melted into her, nothing in my head except the sound of her voice reverberating forever.

“Hey, you’re kinda freaking me out here,” Chloe says, “Bad dream?”

“The worst.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

I shake my head into her chest.

“Hey,” she tries to peel me off of her, but I tighten my arms around her, “Everything's OK, dude. We’re good. Stepdoche doesn’t even know we were at Blackhell last night, promise. Otherwise he’d have broke my fucking door down by now.”

“I dreamed I lost you.”

All Chloe has is silence for me now, just how it always is in the end, how it would be now, if I stayed here in her arms and bent her to me with my power.  
“I love you,” I whisper into her shirt, “I will never forget you.”

“What are yo--”

I steal a kiss, one last kiss I always tell myself, and I walk through the darkness back to what must be, never turning back to the timeline imploding into a black hole behind me, trying to suck me in again. 

_I will never forget you, Chloe Price._

* * * * *

When I open my eyes, I am cold again, and Prescott stands before me with his hand on my shoulder. Too quick, I lift him from the standstill before he gets suspicious, so I barely have time to take a desperate lungful of non chlorinated air before we are standing on the Seattle Waterfront, inches in front of a blonde girl, college age, with her phone out and a huge smile on her face.

“She would be the first,” Sean answers my unspoken question, “He’s guest lecturing at some of the local colleges because of his new exhibition at the Seattle Art Museum. Her name’s Elizabeth. Low level prediction capabilities she thinks is her grandmother speaking through tarot cards. Mark has revealed himself to her. Told her he could teach her. Help her hone her talents.”

He turns to face a hotel, the Edgewater, behind us. Built out on a pier, its rooms hung right over the bay, and several guests were frozen sitting on the window frames. A couple even had fishing rods.

“He would come here,” I say.

We walk through the lobby, down a hall, up a back staircase, and down another hall to his room. The Edgewater is a ramshackle labyrinth which makes my head spin, but I do my best to remember the route out. The Beatles Suit is emblazoned on a gold plaque to the left of the door. I snort.

“Are you prepared?” Prescott asks.

I reach through time and pull a knife from the darkness, that place I only catch glimpses of at the end of a timeline, the endless dark lake under a darker sky, and it reaches back, coloring my voice black as I answer, “I am.”

Sean smiles and opens the door. The room inside is modern retro, carpeted in blue-green plaid and full of geometric furniture. Jefferson sits on a leather couch in front of a dead fireplace, two glasses of some kind of liquor already poured and waiting on the coffee table. His leg is frozen mid bounce, his hands picking at each other in his lap, such a far cry from the practiced, polished Jefferson I originally knew.

Prescott groans as he reclines in the brown leather armchair beside the couch. I walk through the dividing wall to the bedroom and peer around all the corners. Camera gear is hidden behind shower curtain. Not as fancy as the stuff in the bunker. That would come later, years later and in another timeline, after Prescott recruited him and became his sponsor.

I stop my rounds with my free hand on the back of Sean’s chair. My knife is cool and light as a shadow in my hands.

“No hard feelings?” I ask.

“I would be disappointed by anything else.”

I jam the blade through his neck and open it wide with a flick of my wrist. Blood billows up to the ceiling like sticky smoke, faster and faster as his body shrivels into a husk that might have once been human. He’ll regenerate of course, but in the standstill it’ll be slow--painful and slow--and all I need is a bit of time. No pun intended. Slightly intended.

Smiling as I circle the couch and Jefferson, the smell of old blood is thick on my tongue, gathering at the back at my throat until I can barely breathe. My veins pulse in answer, in echo, singing in discordant harmony, and I can feel the power within me shift like a giant snake, like the world serpent, uncoiling in the darkness and wrapping around this world, this universe, this reality. My skin is transparent. It can’t hold me. Nothing can hold me.

I put one hand on Jefferson's head, thumb on the ridge where nose meets the forehead, and I push through, tugging on the strings of fate, bringing them all together into this moment, melding every version of Mark Jefferson that has ever crawled across this earth.

“Max Caulfield,” his voice reverberates in the strange silence, “My favorite student. I wish I could say it was good to see you. Did you like the photos?”

It’s all he has now, and he knows it. Those tableaux I’ll never forget however long I live. They’re all the revenge he can muster for what’s about to happen. I bury my knife in his thigh. His leg flexes around the blade, and he smiles.

“Oh come on, I know I taught you better than that.”

I call the knife back to the day it was forged, and the insides of Jefferson’s wound sizzle against the blade. A second later I realize he is screaming.

“You’re right,” I say ripping the knife free from the burnt flesh clinging to it, “You did.”

Mark’s screams fade to panting before finally turning into an almost laugh, “So what’s it going to be this time, Caulfield? What new question do you have for me?”

“Tell me what you know about Sera Gearhardt.”


	2. New Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chloe loses her dad and reunites with someone she though she'd lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all!
> 
> The first four chapters are going to shift between the four major POVs in this story. Chapter One was Max, Chapter Two is Chloe, Chapter Three will be Rachel, and Chapter Four will be Victoria.
> 
> Chloe is by far the easiest for me to write, probably because I relate to her so much. I lost my dad when I was super young too, and a lot of times I am turned off by the played out and fake dead parent trope, but Chloe is anything but fake. I remember having so many of the same thoughts, the same ideas. Playing as her, particularly in BTS, was hugely therapeutic in a weird way.
> 
> Similarly, this chapter was very cathartic to write, but I do want to list a couple of TWs.
> 
> Trigger Warnings:  
> 1) First hand experience of Chloe losing her dad  
> 2) Some talk about cheating towards the end
> 
> Hope you all enjoy!

"'Cause life is carnage  
I once was lost, but now I'm floundered  
And running late for my funerary date  
Burn me later, could you smile while you do it?"  
Speedy Ortiz ~Lucky 88

## Chapter Two: Chloe

**Smack. Smack. Smack.**

I fall against the nurse station counter and slide down to the floor. Every time I try to--

**“Clear!”**

**Smack. Smack. Smack.**

His body keeps time. With each pulse from the defibrillator, his chest arcs towards the ceiling, held aloft by tensed muscles and broken bones, and all I can think of is Reagan crab walking down the stairs in _The Exorcist_ even though I know that I shouldn’t, and I have to stop myself from laughing because I know they’ll know I’m wrong then.

**Smack. Smack. Smack.**

When the current is pulled away, he falls back against the gurney, broken body soaked with blood. I should be crying. Mom is crying--even Ms. Caulfield is crying--and he’s _my_ dad. They’ll think I’m a psychopath, but I know he’ll be alright. I knew when Mr. and Ms. Caulfield picked me up from home and told me what happened. He’s always ok. He has to be.

**Smack. Smack. Smack.**

I cover my ears with my hands and crush them into my skull with my knees, but I can’t block it out. 

**Smack. Smack. Smack.**

I sit listening, counting the seconds in the rise and fall of my dad’s limp body until I can’t and there are no seconds or minutes or hours, no hospital with the sharp scent of fake lemon that claws at the back of my throat, nothing at all except for the sound. 

Until it’s gone and the air seems dead without it and I would trade anything in the world to have it back. 

“Ms. Price? I’m afraid your husband is gone. We can keep his heart beating if there are any last religious rights you need to perform,” the doctor pauses, waiting for a response, but when she doesn’t get one, she continues, “It is hard to tell for sure without an autopsy, but I believe the car accident caused severe hemorrhaging in the brain.” 

Another beat of silence. 

“If you’d like, I can schedule an autopsy to determine--” 

“ **No.** ” I barely recognize my own mom’s voice until she adds, “Thank you, doctor.” 

She starts almost crying in that horrible way I’ve only heard once before when I broke my wrist. The sounds are strained, as if the climb from her lungs to her throat is equivalent to scaling Everest, and they emerge just to expire on her lips, weak and pathetic, but at least she’s crying. My stomach freezes over. My dad is dead. 

_My dad is dead_ , I say it to myself, _My dad is dead_. But I feel nothing. My dad is dead and I feel nothing at all. What the fuck is wrong with me? 

“Chloe?” Ms. Caulfield squats down in front of me, a hand on my knee, “When--when I lost Maxine, they told me hearing is one of the last things to go. If you have anything to say, now’s the time.” 

“Tell him? Tell him what? He’s dead. He’s _gone._ ” 

“You could tell him you love him.” 

She half helps half pulls me to my feet, and I am standing in the doorway where nothing smells like lemon anymore. The air is so heavy with blood I think I must have bit my cheek the way I do when the thoughts come at night that I can’t get rid of, but I didn’t, and I realize I am tasting my dad’s blood. 

I am standing beside the gurney now. His skin is paper white. His eyes are open and looking at me, but they don’t see me. I close them the way I’ve seen them do in the movies, and I kiss his forehead, all the while feeling nothing except how cold his skin is against my lips. 

I should probably beg too, like they do in books, so I say, “Please,” a lot, though I don’t really know what I’m asking for, “Please. I love you. I love you. I love you.” 

It is Ms. Caulfield again who pulls me away and leads me down the hall and out of the lobby and helps me into their van beside my mom in the backseat. No one says anything as we drive back to our house. Outside, the waves glimmer in the sun, and everyone walks around on their usual business. 

_If he really died, everything would be different, right?_

It would rain out of nowhere or the streets would be deserted or--or something. 

Our car will be sitting in our driveway. Dad’ll be sitting inside on the couch, wondering where we are. It’ll all have been a terrible mishap. I mean, that thing on the gurney didn’t look like him at all. They’ll have called the wrong family, and somewhere there’s another family waiting for dad to come home to dinner, but he never will. He never will. 

* * * * * 

There is a car in our driveway when we get back, but it’s a black Suburban, not our old van. A woman and a man stand outside our door, watching us as Mr. Caulfield parks along the curb. One, the man, I recognize because who wouldn’t recognize Sean fucking Prescott, father of the biggest shithead in school. I don’t recognize the woman, but something about her immediately screams bodyguard despite the fact she’s not much taller than I am. 

She looks like an early prototype for the Terminator, obviously made of twisted iron under her skin, with the dusting of freckles across her face a failed attempt to soften her steel eyes by some AI guessing what it means to be human. She wears a tank top, and her left arm is completely covered in the most badass tattoo I’ve ever seen: a skull in a bouquet of ragged ribbons, thorn covered vines, and flowers in blood red bloom. The whole piece is completed with blue butterflies swirling around her bicep. 

For a minute, we all stay rooted to the ground, staring at each other through the car windows. 

“I can deal with him if you want,” Mr. Caulfield offers, but my mom just shakes her head and gets out of the car. 

Mr. Prescott sweeps down the driveway towards us with his arms wide and a sympathetic frown on his face, but the woman never even blinks, her eyes burning into mine, face unreadable. 

“Ms. Price--Joyce, if I may call you that--I am so sorry to hear--” 

“What do you want?” mom asks. 

“Well,” Mr. Prescott shifts from one foot to the other, “It’s a small town, Ms. Price, and word travels quickly, particularly among middle schoolers with all their gadgets. My son Nathan came to me distraught. He--” 

“Is a massive asshole.” 

“Chloe,” mom starts, but Mr. Prescott waves a hand. 

“No, no. I’m well aware of my son’s issues. And how he never seems to be disciplined for them at school,” with his attention on me, I can see there’s something weird about his eyes. They don’t fit with the rest of his face. They’re old, not in the kindly grandmother way, but they do understand, “I know with your world being turned upside down, now probably isn’t the best time to discuss my son, but I want you to know--and you too Ms. Price--that you are always welcome to bring any problematic behavior to my attention. 

“But as I say, my visit today isn’t about that. I was heartbroken to hear of your family’s loss. As a father myself, the idea of leaving my flesh and blood alone due to some tragic unforeseen accident is, as I say, heartbreaking. And while I am fortunate enough to know my family would be provided for, I also know that they are the lucky few.” 

_Jesus, this dude can talk._

Mr. Prescott clears his throat, “Which is why I took it upon myself to help in whatever way I can. I’ve taken the liberty of setting up a trust for Chloe as well as a monthly stipend to help you both with whatever expenses may come up in this time of terrible transition. I also talked with Ray, the principal at Blackwell Academy, and after discussing Chloe’s excellent grades, we agreed the school would be remiss not to offer her a full scholarship once she starts high school. And who knows, if she continues to excel in the sciences, perhaps we might find an internship for her at the lab. But of course, that is all a long way away, especially now.” 

He manages to make his smile sad as he flicks his eyes between the four of us. 

“But,” my mom pauses, “This just happened. How did--” 

“Time moves quickly in small towns. And, if you’ll forgive me, it doesn’t hurt to have the resources I have, the resources I want to use to help you and your daughter,” Mr. Prescott waves one arm absently behind him, and the woman stops staring at me for the first time to pull a bulging envelope from her back pocket and hand it to him, “All the details are in here, as well as my personal cell number and the number for my assistant here. Please don’t hesitate to call either of us, day or night. I don’t mean to intrude at such a sensitive time, but I felt this might help ease some of the more materialistic concerns as your grapple with your grief.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Prescott but--” 

“Please, call me Sean.” 

“--But I can’t take--” 

“You absolutely can. And you should. If not for you, then for your daughter,” he smiles at me, “Now, we won’t intrude any longer. Again, call me day or night. I’ll arrange for our family chef to send you over food for the next few weeks.” 

“Thank you, really.” 

“Don’t mention it, _really_ ,” his smile becomes fixed, “I have more money than I could ever spend, even if I lived forever.” 

He and his assistant climb into the Suburban and back out the driveway, disappearing over the hill between our house and the main street. We all stand there, staring after them, until Mr. Caulfield clears his throat. 

“Not to doubt Prescott’s generosity, but I might have a good lawyer look at those documents. The lives Sean Prescott has ended with a few loopholes--” he trails off, but my mom doesn’t say anything, and soon Ms. Caulfield is gently tugging at her husband's sleeve, and I am following mom alone into our house. 

We sit on the couch for a long time, neither of us saying anything. I keep expecting the front door to open. I keep expecting dad to stick his head in through the sliding back door and yell some stupid joke. I keep expecting to hear him whistling in the garage. 

“Well,” my mom says, but her voice isn’t hers, “I guess I should start making funeral arrangements.” 

* * * * * 

The HMS Ol’ Piece of Shit, once condemned to a junkyard before it got hijacked by pirates, barely makes it into the Two Whales parking lot before shuddering in relief as I turn the engine off. I pat the dash, “You made it buddy. Last trip for a while.” 

Prescott used his assistant to try and force a new truck on me before I went off to college, but I told her to get back to fucking him instead. Anytime he wanted me to try to accept more of his money, he’d always send her, as if little five foot nothing could ever intimidate me. Even my mom, who went on and on about not becoming a trust fund baby, wanted me to put everything on the metal card he gave me. She couldn’t see the irony, me taking the money while she refused to quit waiting tables at Two Whales. Maybe now that I got a job I’ll finally convince her to quit. And retire the old truck. But not to a junkyard. 

I glance at my watch as I slam my door behind me to announce my coming. It’s only nine-o-five, but the lights are already off. Mom musta kicked all the regulars out early just for me. I can’t help myself from smiling stupidly before bounding up the stairs and yanking open the diner door. 

“Mom?” I yell, “What’s cookin’ good lookin’?” 

“SURPRISE!” 

I raise my hand to defend myself from the lights and crowd of people popping up from behind the bar. Steph and Mikey and Drew and Trevor and Taylor and-- 

“Rachel?” 

I fucking hate to say it, but LA’s treated her well. Or she’s treated herself well. 

“It’s good to see you too, honey,” mom says, the first to come around from the counter. 

I let her hug me, but I keep my eyes locked on Rachel over her shoulder. 

“What are you doing here?” I ask, then see the look on my mom’s face and correct myself, “What are you all doing here?” 

“Celebrating your graduation,” Rachel says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “Duh.” 

Mom must feel the fury rolling off me in fucking waves because she clears her throat and starts corralling the others into the kitchen, “Now I made ya’ll some of everything. Help yourself. There’s whipped cream in the fridge for your waffles. Come on, move it. I haven’t eaten since breakfast this morning.” 

Rachel and I stay where we are, the bar between us, which is lucky. 

“Hey,” she says after the kitchen door closes. 

“Hey?” I ask, “Fucking hey? That’s the best Rachel Amber can come up with?” 

“You look good.” 

“What do you want, Rachel?” 

“Jesus, Chloe. I had a break in shooting and I thought you would like to see everyone again. It wasn’t easy getting us all together again, you know.” 

“I’m going to ask one more time. What do you want?” 

“I just told you.” 

“No. You know I don’t give a rats ass about half the people you invited. Steph? Mikey? Drew? Yeah. Trevor? Sure. But Taylor? Fucking Victoria?” 

“Ok, so I invited everyone. So what?” 

“So it was never about me. You’d never have invited the rest of them if it was for me. What is this about? You want to show off your hot LA look?” 

“You think I look hot?” 

“Can you have an honest conversation with me for once in your life.” 

A muscle jumps in Rachel’s jaw, the one when she’s caught between laughing and yelling. 

“I missed you, Chloe.” 

“Oh,” I laugh, “You missed me.” 

“Yeah. I did.” 

Her green eyes are too warm after driving along the coast in the winter with my windows rolled down. If I’m being honest, there’s a bit of me--a lot more than a bit if I’m really being honest--that just wants to vault over the counter and hug her so tight she’ll never go away again. 

“I missed you too,” I say. 

“But?” Rachel actually does smile know, one of those real smiles I can count seeing on one hand, “You’re not ready to forgive me, are you?” 

“I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready to forgive you.” 

Rachel nods, eyes flicking between mine, raising one eyebrow as she says, “I’ll take those odds.” 

My stupid damn heart can’t help but to skip a beat, “Yeah?” 

“Yeah. At least I’m betting on someone real,” she says before turning and disappearing into the kitchen. 

I’m about to follow when there’s a rap on the door, and Sean Prescott sweeps over the threshold, a bottle of champagne in hand. His eternal shadow is close behind. 

“Hey, Mr. Prescott.” 

“Chloe. You better get used to calling me Sean now that you’ll be working at the lab. A double major in three years without ever vacating the Dean’s List,” he lays a heavy hand on my shoulder, “Forgive me for saying it, but your father would be so proud. Quite the accomplishment. My father donated enough money to my alma mater to buy it five times over, and I still barely scraped by with a C average.” 

“Thanks, Sean.” 

Prescott slaps me on the back and holds up the bottle in his other hand, “This is for you. I’ve been aging it since you got accepted to college. Well, the winery happened to be aging it for a long time before that, but I personally started aging it then.” 

The door to the kitchen bursts open, and everyone shoves through with plates piled high with my mom’s best cooking. Bitches better have left some for me. 

“Mr. Prescott,” my mom says, “I didn’t think you’d be able to make it.” 

“Sean. Please, how many times must I say it, call me Sean,” he says, but he hugs my mom all the same, “I was just telling Chloe how proud her father would be of her academic achievement.” 

Mom falters, but to her credit, it’s only a second before she bolts the southern bell smile on. 

“He really would be,” she says, “Especially with this job, uh, what exactly is she going to be doing again?” 

My eyes wander the way they always do when Rachel’s near. I find her frozen at the corner of the bar, chocolate chip waffles about to slip of her plate, staring at Mr. Prescott’s assistant with her mouth dangling. I bite down hard on my tongue to stop from screaming. 

“Excuse me,” I interrupt my mom, “I’m gonna go see if I can sabre this with a cleaver.” 

“Uh, I really wouldn’t advise--” Sean starts. 

“You want a glass?” I ask his assistant, eyes pinning her to the wall so there’s nowhere for her to squirm away to, but she meets my gaze and even smiles, the bitch. 

“No thank you.” 

“Cool,” I say, and spin away, grabbing Rachel on my way to the kitchen. 

Everyone watches us as I shove her into the kitchen and close the door behind us. I know exactly where the knives are, but I pretend I don’t to give Rachel some more tension. She’s always best under pressure, except when I’m the one causing it. That’s how I found out about-- 

_No. Nope. Not going there._

“Did you fuck her too?” I say instead, so I don’t have to think about it. 

“What? Chloe, no. I--” 

“You what? You would never?” 

I have my back to her and my hand crushing the corkscrew so tight I think I might break my hand. 

“Honest conversation for once in my life,” Rachel says, “Her name is Max. She was my, I don’t know, tutor, I guess? I cheated on you once in my life. For money. Once. That was it.” 

“Was she a sexy teacher?” 

“I was a kid, Chloe. Like a kid kid. Seven or eight.” 

“Who the fuck has a tutor at seven? What, could you not tie your shoes or something?” 

“Not exactly.” 


	3. Rebirth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Max trains Rachel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late chapter today, but it was a long day, and my computer kept crashing. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> TWs: Self harm and alcoholism

"But nothing's changed, L.A.'s alright  
I'm sleeping in my bed again, and getting in my head  
And then, walk around the reservoir  
You, you must've been looking for me  
Sending smoke signals  
Pelicans circling  
Burning trash out on the beach"  
Phoebe Bridgers ~ Smoke Signals

## Chapter Three: Rachel

My dad taught me one thing first and foremost: control. Everything in life, he told me over and over since before I could understand, is an argument. If you want to change the world, want to get something, the only way to get it was to control the situation, and that started with controlling yourself. Swallow your emotions like hot stones, however painful, for they will be no help. Trust and rely on no one because most people are weightless by nature. Instead, shape the situation so they have nowhere else to go except along with what you want.

Of course, he didn’t tell me about the situations, the people, that are uncontrollable. A more forgiving person might say that’s because he didn’t want to burden me with the concept when I was too young, but even at seven-and-a-half-years-old, I knew it was because he didn’t think there were any situations or people he didn’t have full control over at all times. 

Hey, everybody’s got flaws. I didn’t need my dad to teach me that. Didn’t need him to teach me how to exploit them. Despite all his lessons and lectures, the biggest lesson I learned in an authoritarian household was how to treasure secrets and how to keep them. I don’t think when he said to control others he meant for me to control him, but there you are. Nothing like growing up with an incredible prosecutor to teach you how to lie.

One of my secrets: I watched YouTube tutorials on the school computers to learn how to pick the locked drawer in my dad’s desk. I read every single one of his case files, and I knew if someone broke into the DA’s house and immediately went for the kid’s room, the best I could hope for was a kidnapping. Even if I tried to scream, it would take dad at least three minutes to sprint down the hallway from his and mom’s room to mine. More than enough time for me to be shot and my assassin to flee out my window. So, I knew there was no point yelling for help when I woke up in the middle of the night with a woman standing over the foot of my bed.

She was one of those adults who looked deceptively young. She was short, with a scattering of freckles, and her eyes were watery, as if she were about to cry. It was her posture that gave her away. Already short, she slumped so much she lost another few inches. She reminded me of our neighbor, Charlie, who dad didn’t want me to know had cancer. When he drove, he was so hunched that the car looked like it was driving itself unless you really looked.

“I’m not here to kidnap or kill you,” the woman said, her voice warmer than I expected.

“No?” I asked, cocking an eyebrow, “Than why are you breaking into the DA’s house at three in the morning. I’m not stupid you know.”

She snorts, “No. I don’t think you are. I’m here because you’re special, Rachel.”

“Flattery is for fools,” I quoted my dad, “You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

“My name is Max. And I’m like you. I’m special.”

I rolled my eyes, and Max laughed. Not like a villain either. Not with cruelty.

“Thank God you’re not like most seven year olds. Otherwise this would be much harder.”

She drew a gun from somewhere and pointed it straight at me. My skin buzzed.

“Wait--”

The quiet morning exploded, and I squeezed my eyes shut to wait for the end. But it never came, and when I opened my eyes again, I went cross eyed because the bullet shuddered in the air a few inches from my head. My heart pounded. The world around me burned with black spots, and as I watched, the bullet slowly--ever so slowly--retracted back into the woman’s gun, which she holstered into thin air.

“I’m not here to kill you,” she said again.

“That was dumb. My dad will have heard it.”

“Why don’t we go see then?” she asked.

Immediately I thought about the case photos of the old DA, the one before dad, who was stabbed sixty-seven times in his home in front of his already dead family, but when I sprinted to my parents’ room, both of them were fine. Sleeping somehow, but still alive. I tried to shake dad, but he didn't move. Even when I let go mid shake, he stayed completely still. I took one of his arms, raised it above his head, and it stayed there, hanging in the air. I turned back to the door, and Max stood in the entryway, leaning against the door frame.

“Who are you?”

“I told you, I’m Max,” she said, smiling, “And I’m like you. We’re special.”

“What did you do to my parents?”

“Nothing. They’re frozen in time. The entire world is standing still right now, except for you and me,” she walked back down the hallway, “Come see.”

I followed her back to my room, out my window, and onto the roof. The San Diego skyline seemed blurred almost, the faint stars watched unblinkingly, and the few cars on the roads so late in our suburb didn't move.

“Watch,” Max said.

The distant lights twinkled again, the direction indeterminable at that distance, but the cars crawled backwards along the streets, moving faster and faster until they speed through the streets in reverse. On a flyover ramp, headlights turned red and taillights turned white as traffic switched direction. 

“And again.”

Time resumed its normal course back to the point it was when it froze, where all the cars slammed into a full stop.

“You can control time?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“You said,” I looked at her, but she’s staring off into the distance at something I can’t see, “You said I was special too. Can I control time too?”

“No. You have a power all your own. I’m here because I’ve walked countless timelines, and there are others like us who believe our power is awakened and strengthened by pain. Those people, they torture you to try to awaken your power,” Max looked at me, eyes so full and old and sad, “But I don’t think it has to be that way. I don’t think your blood should have to awaken in suffering.”

“In those other times. Do I survive?”

“No.”

“And those people? Are they here? Are they looking for me?”

“Only the ones I couldn’t kill.”

“You don’t talk to me like I’m a kid.”

“Should I?”

“No. I like it.”

“I won’t lie to you Rachel. I’ve lived so long, I’ve forgotten what it was like to be young. I’m older than your parents and your grandparents and your great grandparents all combined. And you and I are of the same blood. My fate is yours, however much I wish I could take it from you,” Max sighed, “But that’s enough for tonight. Too much too young will harm rather than help. However, you will have to train. You will have to grow in power before those that seek to harm you come for you.”

“I will,” I said but paused, “But I don’t know how.”

“I will train you. Tell your dad you’re being bullied at school for being the DA’s daughter. He will want to intervene, but tell him you want to be able to control the situation yourself. He’ll find you a self defense instructor. Me.”

“How do you know?”

“This is not the first time we’ve had this conversation, Rachel. It’s not the first time I’ve tried to set up this situation either.”

“How many times?”

Max’s smile was more like a grimace, “It’s hard for me to tell anymore. But trust me. I need you to trust me. Can you do that?”

I looked at this woman who just a few moments ago had pulled a gun on me, and I remembered all the case files in my dad’s locked drawer, but Max’s words came back to me. _This is not the first time we’ve had this conversation._ It’s late Spring in San Diego, but I shiver all the same. However many times she’s tried, whether it’s to convince me or my dad, she’ll be able to try again and again until she finds the right combination of words, the right inflection, the right timing to be able to control us both.

“Yes,” I lie.

“Good. Then I’ll see you soon.”

* * * * *

Two days later, my dad called me to his office after school. His face was red, so I knew he had been drinking from the bottle of sherry he kept under the case files in his locked door. I’d taken a mouthful when I was reading through a conspiracy trial against former city officials and found I liked the sweet, syrupy taste too, though I was careful to only drink a little at a time, unlike my dad.

“I found a suitable defense instructor,” dad said, “Are you sure this is something you’re interested in? I don’t want to pay for a month of classes only to have you change your mind.”

“I’m sure, dad.”

“Good. I picked this woman because she places a large emphasis on techniques to stop a confrontation before it gets violent, but I want to stress that to you as well. Unless someone else attempts to hurt you physically, you are not to attack them,” he smiles, “Physically, anyways.”

“Of course. I’m not stupid.”

“I never said you were,” dad leaned back in his chair the way he did when he was drunk, swiveling back and forth as he surveyed me, “I think you’ll like the instructor. She had quite the impressive resume. And she reminds me of your same spark.”

“What’s her name?” I asked, trying to keep my tone flat.

“Max Causwell. She is head of security for Prescott Industries properties all over the western seaboard. I’ve worked with Sean--Mr. Prescott-- on a couple occasions, and I know he is a man who spares no expense, particularly when it comes to protecting his holdings. After all, he hired me back when I ran my private practice.”

The ego my father tried to bury when he was sober always slipped out after a few drinks.

_Control yourself._

“Mr. Prescott,” I feigned dim recollection, “His business is in Arcadia Bay, right? He was sued by his workers for trying to stop them from unionizing, right?”

Of course, I’d read the case a million times, and if I was right, there was no “trying to stop them from unionizing.” One of his dock workers, the same one who was leading walkouts, had their child’s cancer insurance held up for months until the protests stopped. Oh, and of course the worker refused to testify against Mr. Prescott.

“ _Allegedly,_ ” dad said, “But that’s the case, alright. I’ll make a lawyer out of you yet.”

So Max Causwell--if that was her real name, which I seriously doubted--worked for the biggest douche bag in Oregon. Was she wanting to train me on his behalf? Or was she operating on her own?

“When is my first lesson going to be?”

“In about,” dad checked his watch, “About four hours. She’s busy, of course, and she’s never in one place long, so we thought it would be best to strike while she was here.”

 _She thought, you mean,_ I thought, but I say, “Awesome.”

* * * * *

Max Causwell showed up for our first session in a beat up Honda Civic, which made my dad grind my teeth when he got security cam footage of her punching in the code to our gated neighborhood, and he sent me to go meet her at the door, though he said it was, “to give me experience conducting business.” She wears the same thing she did in my room, a pair of jeans so blue they’re almost black and a faded grey tank top, but today she added two huge duffel bags as accessories. I file away the design of her tattoo at the back of my mind to consider when I turn eighteen and can shed my parents’ home with all its rules and expectations.

“Hello, Ms. Causwell,” I said, sticking out my hand the way dad taught me.

“Hey, Rachel,” she cocked a brow at my hand but shook it anyways, the corner of her mouth curling ever so slightly, “Are your parents home?”

“Yes, they’re in the kitchen waiting for you. Follow me.”

I stole a few glances at Max as we walk and notice she didn’t look around at the the three story entry hall with its wrought iron chandelier and grand staircase descending in a graceful plie against either wall, and she didn’t really seem to be following me either, though she did let me lead. 

_Did she already rewound time? Did something happen with my parents?_

The kitchen was almost as spacious as the entryway. Every surface was made of gleaming white marble until you almost went snow blind every time you walked in. Mom and dad stand in a practiced pose of relaxation against the island.

“Max,” dad said, “Glad to see you made it up here. Didn’t get lost?”

“No, sir, thank you.”

“Well, we’re so glad to have found you. Seems like you’re just the person Rachel needs right now, and your credentials were impeccable. You know I worked with Sean, Sean Prescott, to resolve a little issue.”

“Yes, sir. I remember you.”

“Do you,” dad exchanged a look with my mom that made the hair on my arms stand up, “Well how about that.”

“I thought we could start in the backyard, if that’s ok?” my mom started to say something, but Max continued so quick it almost didn’t seem like an interruption, “I brought some pads with us to make sure she’ll have soft landings.”

And somehow, miraculously, that’s all it took for my parents to let me lead her out to our backyard.

_She definitely had a few tries at that._

I turned to catch the door she left to slam, but it is motionless on its hinges. The same eerie silence as the night she came to my room permeates the world. High up in the air, a hawk is frozen mid dive. Max continued to walk as if nothing had changed. She tossed her duffel bag to the ground and turns to face me, arms crossed.

“Are you ready?”

“Uh, I guess. I don’t even know what, like, my powers are,” saying the word out loud made me feel so stupid, and for a moment I doubted myself even though I am standing in the middle of a fucking frozen universe, “I mean, I’ve never done anything… weird or anything.”

“Normally powers don’t manifest themselves unless you under extreme stress,” Max said, “For the majority of people like us, we are born again in a traumatic event. There are some who try to awaken the latent powers in others through torture.”

“Why?”

“Some are simply sadists. Others believe they are doing the person a favor,” Max paused, “Perception changes the longer you live, and people like us have indefinite life spans. When normal people age, they get weaker, but the longer we live, the more powerful we become. And the less human. There are some so ancient they become unfathomable to anyone except themselves.”

“But we are human aren’t we?”

Max shrugged, “Depends on who you ask. Even the oldest of us that I’ve met do not know for sure. However, the metamorphosis that occurs is not simply psychological, I can tell you that much.”

“How old is the oldest you’ve met?”

“Old enough that the concept has lost all meaning. Old enough that all that you and I perceive has little meaning,” Max raised a hand to stop my next question, “All of this does not help you now. Believe me, if you survive to master your powers, you will have more than enough time to find the answers to all your questions. For now, let’s start with the basics: blood is power.

“In my opinion, it is no coincidence most of our reawakenings are linked to suffering and, usually actual but sometimes metaphorical, bloodletting. Any random, ordinary person has latent power in their veins, but there is nothing latent about our blood. 

“You asked why some people try to induce a change in those who have potential power. One reason is to harvest their blood. To us and others like us, the blood of our kind heightens our powers. Now, the older we become, the more potent our blood also becomes, but like I said, it becomes harder and harder to kill people like us as we age because we become exponentially more powerful. However, the weak and inexperienced are easily harvested.”

“Is that what happened to me? In the other timelines, I mean. They wanted my blood?”

“No. The person who wanted you awakened is interested in more than your blood. He,” Max paused again, “He likes to collect people, to bend them to his will. This man is one of the ancients I mentioned. The way he sees the world is difficult to describe, and unless you are able to harness your power, you won’t live long enough to dissect him.”

“Right. Ok. So, blood is power. How does that help me?”

“Because I am going to give you mine,” Max drew a knife out of thin air with a blade at once jagged as broken teeth and smooth as sin, “I figure I’ve suffered enough for the both of us.”

She took the knife in her right hand and cut deep between the thumb and pointer finger of her left hand, but instead of blood gushing from the wound, it snaked through her fingers and up into the air, simmering with noonday fire. She stepped toward me and covered my mouth with her hand so the cut is directly under my nose and her blood is burning my nose, burning my brain, setting every nerve ablaze. 

“Breathe,” Max said, “Breathe. In through your nose. Out through your mouth.”

I exhaled, but I couldn’t get the taste of her out, like battery acid on my tongue. Her blood sunk down my throat, filled my lungs until there was no air, only blood, and the world turned red and white and blue and used black, the color of dying coals.

 _Am I dying?_ The thought was almost tangential because while I still felt every part of my body, there was so much more.

“In and out,” Max says, “In and out.”

The wind against every blade of grass in our backyard. Golden sun on each grain of sand at the beach a hundred miles away. Max’s beating heart. The world was thick with things I’d never felt before, and when I moved through it, the sensations swirled around me, moved by my nonexistence.

“Focus,” Max warned.

Like the sun, I touched everything, the warmth of the world so hot it burns.

_Control yourself._

I was warmth. Nothing more, nothing less. Pure, unadulterated, radiating warmth.

“Look,” Max shouted, “Open your eyes!”

I did, but I didn’t see through them. I saw myself from above, from far above where the sun crossed the sky, and I saw my skin sparking against time frozen around me. 

_I am,_ I thought, purposefully made powerful by the incomplete statement. 

Max pulled her hand away from my face, and I collapsed to the ground panting. With an absentminded twist of her wrist, her flesh knitted itself back together as if she was never cut.

“Not bad for a first try,” she said, “Now get up.”

“What? Why?”

“Because I’ve still got to teach you self defense,” Max smiled and held out a hand.


	4. Making Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introducing everyone's favorite Ice Queen, Victoria Chase!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter today! Haven't had much time. Enjoy!

"Oh, come on, just say something  
No, go ahead, tell me, what do I need?  
I'm not the kind of girl you undo  
I'm not the kind of girl you undo  
Oh, come on, oh, come on  
I've been undone long before you"  
Transviolet ~ Undo

## Chapter Four: Victoria

Who would have thought moving to LA would make a person so _boring_. When Rachel told me to meet her back in Arcadia Bay, I imagined something like psychedelics on the beach, not fucking sitting in a rank-ass diner celebrating her high school toy’s graduation. Sure, the waffles are great, how hard is it to make a fucking waffle? Not hard, I imagine, though I can’t say for sure since I have people for that.

Rachel’s sitting in a corner booth across from Chloe, heads together and whispering. For a moment, I feel a horrible crushing weight on my shoulders, but only for a moment before I crush it back down. _I’m a Chase, goddamn it._ I pinch the bridge of my nose. The words sound like mine in my head, though I can’t even remember where I heard them first, or if I did come up with them.

_Mental Note: Tell Kate--Dr. Marsh--about how often I’ve been having intrusive thoughts lately._

Not like I don’t know why. But whatever. I pick at my waffle.

Taylor nudges me, “You ok, Victoria?”

“I’m fine,” I snap, seeing her eyebrows raise, I purse my lips before adding “ Sorry. Just my dad has me under a lot of pressure at the new location right now. There’s a lot riding on me.”

“You know--”

“I don’t really want to talk about it.”

It’s easy for her to talk, married with two kids, a boy and girl. Sure, she’s still stuck in Arcadia Bay, but it isn’t actually being stuck for her. She’s living the life she wants. Part of me wonders what it would be like. Wishes for it even. To be born to some pair of poor parents that don’t have to care about reputation or the family dynasty.

“You know I’m always here if you do want to talk.”

“Thanks, Taylor,” I look down at my waffle, suddenly not hungry at all, “Do you want my waffle? I’m gonna go outside for a bit. Breathe some air that isn’t greasy enough to get me a triple bypass.”

“I shouldn’t, but yeah. These are so good.”

I slide out of the booth, smoothing out the nonexistent wrinkles of my understated Neiman Marcus cashmere dress, and step out into the cold, thankful that the turtleneck takes the bite out of the winter wind off the ocean. My throat itches the way it always does when I get stressed, the way it probably always will even though I quit smoking years ago, at my parent’s insistence.

_I don’t know if I’ve ever made a decision, like, an actual decision in my life._

I could leave. Taylor would be the only one who would care, but she would understand. Why did fucking Rachel even invite me back to this shithole? Some kind of prank?  
The bell over the diner door rings, and Prescott’s bodyguard steps out, her eyes scanning over me in the kind of assessment the good guards always do, but her eyes are cold when they meet mine. Working for the all high and mighty Sean Prescott must have caused her to forget to respect her betters. Not like she has anything to feel uppity about, wearing her usual ratty tank top despite the cold. My eyes linger on the defined muscles in her arms, her shoulders. Her left arm is covered in a trash tattoo, and the forearm on her right is a mess of scars. Probably couldn’t pull off any part of haute couture anyways, though her cheekbones would be an advantage, if she ever did anything about her face except pull her hair out of it and into a tight pony.

“Victoria,” she says coolly, strutting past as if she is worth something, though I’m surprised she remembers my name. I’ve been relegated to side conversations at most of my family’s parties lately.

Maybe I’ll have a smoke anyway. Work my way through a pack driving back to Portland. Have my car deep cleaned before my dad comes for his twice a week inspections.

I watch the jumped-up security guard walk through the parking lot to Prescott’s Bentley. She must have quite the collection of scars under her top. When I was a kid, she took a bullet for Nathan during a kidnapping turned wrong and still chased the attacker down over three New York blocks to beat him into submission. It was one of his favorite stories to pull out at Blackwell, trying to impress girls with someone else’s badassery. Wonder if her all swagger is from that bullet wound.

_I’m definitely going to smoke tonight._

The door chimes again, and this time it’s Rachel Amber intruding. I opt to watch Sean’s lackey pull his car around instead of looking at her.

“This whole thing has been a little disappointing, Rachel,” I say, “Which means you have something up your sleeve, don’t you?”

Rachel smiles her thousand megawatt smile, “You know me too well.”

Actually, Rachel has been the only person I never could read, even back at Blackwell. When everyone else was so predictable, she’d be securing a summer internship with HarperCollins one day and shacking up with the local drug dealer the next.

“Why am I here?”

“Because you owe me. Speaking of which, I need to call in a favor. I want to have a reunion at Blackwell, and I want you to help me plan it. It can be a display of what the school’s best and brightest have done with themselves since graduating.”

“So, what, it’ll be you and me and then a bunch of depressing losers who had to give up on their dreams to work part time so they can make rent?”

“Sounds oddly specific,” Rachel’s still smiling, but I blush all the same.

“So what do you get out of it?”

“I want a stage. An exact replica of the one we did the Tempest on, do you remember?”

“Sure. Why do you want that?” But Rachel only keeps smiling in answer, so I grind my teeth and spit out, “And what if I don’t want to help?”

“Because you owe me Chase. How is Kate Marsh doing these days?”

My blood freezes, and my mind goes blank.

“I was thinking about the week before Christmas. Most of our class will be back in town for the holidays anyways.”

“Fine,” I snap.

“Good,” Rachel winks, “We’ll talk later then.”

After the door closes behind her, the bodyguard’s voice makes me jump.

“How is Kate Marsh?”

At some point during the conversation, she had rolled down the window to the Bentley. Her face is hidden in shadow, but I can feel her looking at me even if I can’t see it.

“What do you know about Kate?”

“Sean had me watch her hospital room after everything that happened.”

“How generous.”

She tilts her head out the window so her half smile is illuminated in small-town-orange street light, “Sure. But seriously, how is she?”

Mentally cursing Rachel into oblivion, I force myself to keep eye contact.

“Fine, I think she’s a therapist in Portland.”

For the second time tonight, I’m face to face with an unreadable woman. The bodyguard’s eyes look right through me, focused on something far away.

“Good to know she made it,” she says before leaning back into the car and vanishing in shadow.


	5. Tea, Therapy, and Terror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Max has tea and therapy with Dr. Kate Marsh.
> 
> Then things get real weird™

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everybody!
> 
> Had a lot of fun writing this chapter. I really love Kate, and I also love when things go off the deep end at the end of the chapter.
> 
> There is some Ancient Sumerian in this. It's mainly for flavor, but I did make a conscious effort to have it make some sense. If you want to see what words or phrases mean, here is the document I used: https://www.bulgari-istoria-2010.com/Rechnici/Sumerian_Dictionary.pdf
> 
> Trigger Warnings: Lots of PTSD symptoms, slight self harm, graphic talk about suicide, and mutilation of an already dead body.
> 
> See you all on Wednesday! The next few chapters are going to be pretty tame. Not much supernatural going on and none like is in this chapter for sure.

"Why are you holding on  
To what you know is gone?  
You know it wasn't meant to be  
Both knees are on the floor  
You reach out your hands for more  
Like the shoreline trying its best to hold on to the sea"  
~ Aisha Badru "Water"

## Chapter Five: Max

The waiting room for Kate’s practice is painted a soft grey with warm wood floors and blue chairs. A framed “inhale,” flows in loopy calligraphy into a neighboring frame, “exhale.” Above the sign in table, there’s a long watercolor of cute animals, and I think it must be Alice the rabbit there in the center. Good to know Kate’s still finds some time for her illustrations. 

The door without a handle opens, and Kate pokes her head out, finding me before asking, “Max?”

The dark bags that seemed to perpetually lurk under her eyes in the timelines I knew her are gone, but her smile is just as gentle as ever.

“Yep, that’s me,” I shake her proffered hand, “But I guess you knew it was me?”

“I did. You know, I don’t usually take patients from Arcadia Bay, what with my history there and all, but I think I can make an exception for you,” Kate says, “I haven’t forgotten your kindness when I was in the hospital.”

“It was nothing.”

“It was everything. Now come on back. How are you feeling today, Max?”

“Not great. Suppose if I was, I wouldn’t be here to see you.”

“There’s always a silver lining.”

She shows me into a spacious office overlooking a lake. Winter casts the outside in a blue hue, but lamps and a space heater keep the inside cozy. A glass desk with gold legs sits against one corner with a Macbook and an electric kettle on it, and two matching bookcases stand guard by the entrance with various copies of _Psychology Today_ and books I don’t recognize. I’ve never been much of a self help girl.

I take a seat on the couch, and Kate sits in an armchair across from me, tucking one leg under herself and spreading a poofy blanket over her lap. I find I’m having trouble looking her right in the eye, opting instead to look out the window. It’s been a long time since I’ve been nervous, but it’s been a long time since I’ve talked--actually talked--to anyone too.

“So,” Kate says, “What brings you in to see me?”

“Well. I said in my email.”

“I know. But I find it's best if you can tell me yourself with your own voice, if you can.”

For a second, I see myself as if I’m hanging in the air above me, the feeling of my clenched jaw, my cold sweat, my shaking hands, all removed, almost clinical. For a second, a brief and glorious second, I am not myself, but then it is all over, and all I can feel is slick cold on my hands, on my legs.

_Get yourself together, Max._

“You don’t have to talk, if you’re not ready,” Kate says, “It’s ok. Why don’t we star--”

“I’m here because my wife killed herself,” I barely get out as my throat tightens, threatening to strangle me. I leave out the part that she killed herself two hundred and thirteen times because I don’t want to have to rewind this and do it all over, “Because she’s dead.”

“Thank you for telling me, Max. How long ago was this?”

“Feels like a million years ago,” it’s not quite a lie.

“I can imagine. And I bet it's not the only traumatic experience you’ve had, given your line of work.”

“You have no idea,” my laugh is so acidic it burns my tongue on the way out of my mouth.

“No, I don’t think I do,” Kate pauses, “Would you like some tea?”

“What?”

“Would you like some tea? I’ve always found it soothing. I’ve got some ginger peach, but you seem more like an Earl Grey type.”

“Actually, ginger peach would be amazing.”

“So, Max,” Kate says as she moves to her desk and pours hot water over two tea bags, “Why did you come to see me? What are you hoping to get out of therapy?”

“Well, I guess for starters it would be nice to have someone to talk to about, uh, everything.”

“Here you are,” Kate hands me a floral print cup, “And why don’t we start there. Why don’t you begin by telling me everything you can. Everything you want to. We’ll go from there.”

The incense of hot tea and ginger makes my head spin, but I take a sip anyways, reveling in the sharp pain as the bottom layer on the roof of my mouth dies by fire. The skies outside the office building are icy grey.

“My wife, she had to give up a lot to be with me, and I guess--no. I know that in the end it was too much. Or maybe I just wasn’t enough,” I glance at Kate, and she nods in encouragement, so I keep going, the words spilling out faster and faster, “We were childhood best friends, but her dad died, and I moved away, and I guess we just fell out of contact. My fault, not hers. She reached out so many times, but I--I guess I was scared that she would be mad, and the more time that passed the more scared I got. I’ll never forgive myself for that. I wasn’t there when she needed me the most.

“There was another woman. Girl at the time, I guess. We were all still in high school. She was there for her, my wife, when I wasn’t. And--”

“Sorry to interrupt,” Kate says, “But what were their names? Your wife and this other woman. Too many shes and I know I’ll get confused.”

“The girl’s name was Rachel, and my wife,” black spots dance across my vision, and all I feel, all I am is the rough wool of the couch against my palm, “Her name was Chloe.”

“Chloe and Rachel. Got it. Ok, go on.”

“Yeah. So, Rachel was there for Chloe when I wasn’t. And they fell in love. Or at least Chloe fell for her. But Rachel died. Chloe and I found the body in a shallow grave in the junkyard an--an--and,” my breath catches, turns into a sob, “I’m sorry.”

“There is nothing to apologize for, Max. You don’t have to continue if you’re not ready.”

“No. No, it’s good to finally get it out,” I take a deep, shuddering breath, “Rachel got murdered by one of their high school teachers. One of my high school teachers. I moved back just after it happened. Ran into Chloe by pure accident. She was putting up missing person fliers all over school, and after that, it was almost like nothing happened, but something did happen, and even though it was like no time had passed at all, there was this shadow between us. Her shadow. Rachel’s shadow.  
“We had both changed so much, and there was so much of Rachel in her. I used to tell Chloe--it was in my wedding vows--that she’d changed me, left her handprints on my soul,” I ball my hands into fists to try and stop the shaking, “But it was never like that for her. I never did that for her. But Rachel did. I was safe for her, especially after everything. There was Rachel, and then there was also a freak storm that came obliterated our home down and killed her mom. Part of me thinks she stayed with me because I was really all she had left.

“But it wasn’t enough. It was never enough,” I pause, settle on a way to stretch the truth and also say how I feel, “She tried to--tried to kill herself--a few times before she actually did. It was always the same. I’d wake up to an empty bed and a note on her nightstand. I’d find her in the bathroom with pills or the kitchen with a knife or the garage with rope. She’d go into the hospital and then an inpatient program, and she’d be ok for a while, but she never stayed ok.

“And you know, she wasn’t the only one who sacrificed. That’s what hurts the most. She wasn’t the only one who lost everything so we could be together. But it was enough for me. She was all I needed, all I wanted, all I could ever ask for. I wasn’t for her. I wasn’t for her.”

At some point I’d started crying. Tears collect on my jaw before raining down on my jeans. I close my eyes, and without any visual anchors to hold me in place, I float through the ether. I am nothing and there is nothing.

“The last time, she woke me up. It was a shotgun. I knew right away, and I ran downstairs, and I found her in the backyard. What was left of her. Most of her head gone. Splattered everywhere. The fence. The walls of the house. The grass. She was still warm when I held what was left of her, and I didn’t move until a long time after she went cold.”

I pull at the chain around my neck and show Kate the two rings I keep with me always. I feel the inside of each band with a thumb, pressing my finger into the engravings.

 _For my partner in crime,_ mine.

 _For my partner in time,_ Chloe’s.

Wind whips the cold rain into a frenzy until each drop pierces my skin like a needle. Ozone pulls at my hair until they stand on end. Her lips on mine.

 _Max Caulfield. Don’t you forget about me,_ I almost laugh through the sobs, _As if I ever could._

“I tried too after that. Tried to kill myself. Drove into a concrete barrier at a hundred and five miles per hour. I’ll never forget the way the steel crumpled like paper or how our three ton truck bounced up into the air as if it weighed nothing at all. But here I am. Here I am while she’s gone. Out of us, I was always the survivor. The coward.”

“Speaking from experience, I think it takes a lot of courage to live when you’ve got nothing left. Or when it feels like you’ve got nothing left,” Kate smiles, “And I for one am very happy you’re still here. I don’t know if I would be here if you weren’t there in the hospital with me after my attempt, and I am sure that you, like me, have gone on to help so many.”

“You want to know something terrible?” I ask, “I hate myself for it, but if you gave me the chance to go back and a guarantee that everything would be different, that Chloe would be happy, and that we would be together, I would go back in a heartbeat. I’d leave it all, take back all the good, just for her.”

“Of course you would. And there’s nothing wrong with that.”

“It’s selfish.”

“Yeah, it is selfish, and what’s so wrong with that? Max, if you spend your entire life trying to live up to some idealized notion of selfless, absolute good, you’re going to live a bitter and disappointed life. Not only that, but that path requires so much self sacrifice, so much stifling of your own needs, you will eventually reach a point where you have nothing left to give anyone else. For both yourself and those around you, you have to take care of yourself first,” Kate takes a sip of her tea, “Now, I want to go back for a moment. From what you’ve said, I understand there is a lot of sadness and grief and loss, but for a moment there, I felt anger too.”

“Anger?”

“Yes. When you mentioned how you were willing to sacrifice but she could not, would not, do the same for you.”

My stomach writhes, twisting itself into a knot, and I must be blushing because Kate shakes her head.

“There is nothing to feel guilty about, Max. It is natural to feel angry with your spouse for essentially abandoning you. You have to let yourself feel these emotions without self judgement in order to let go.”

“I don’t think I can let go. It’s been--” I catch myself, “It’s been so long, and I haven’t moved on. Just the idea of _moving on--_ ”

“Makes you feel guilty? Gross? Scared?” Kate pauses to let her words sink in, “Max, what you’re feeling is totally normal. And I’m not asking you to let go or move on today, this month, or this year. I’m not even asking you to think about that right now. But I am asking you to start processing your emotions instead of locking them out, to start feeling again.”

“And how would I do that?”

“There are several grounding exercises we can go over, but I also have a hunch there may be hobbies you had that you’ve stopped doing since Chloe died. Am I right?”

The black spots in my vision bloom into electric blue. Chloe’s faded hair thrashing around her head like a half mad, half drowned animal. Two halves of the polaroid butterfly flitting away in the wind, stranding me in a timeline of death and suicide and grief until I met Prescott. Until I unlocked my true power with her blood. The storm roars as it devours Arcadia bay.

“I--I used to take photographs,” I say, “But, yeah, I haven’t taken any since she died.”

“Then maybe you can start there. I’d like to see you again next week, and if you’re able, maybe try to take and bring in a couple photos.”

“Ok. I’ll try.”

“That’s all I ask,” Kate smiles, “Same time next week?”

“Same time next week.”

* * * * *

American Rust and Victoria Chase are the two things which never seem to change much in any timeline. No comparisons needed on that one, but Chloe’s home away from hell is obviously my preference. William’s half crushed, rusted out minivan is still abandoned right inside the entrance, the old boat crests a wave of trash, and familiar empty green beer bottles are scattered around the junkyard. I wonder if Chloe left any of them in this timeline, if she ever even came here in this timeline. The old truck she would fix up originally is still here.

_If that was even the originally._

Old pines shimmer in the standstill, still seeming to sway and whisper warnings in the nonexistent wind as I walk over to the spot Rachel was wrapped in a tarp and dumped, where Jefferson shot Chloe through the head. I swallow down the bile in my throat and roll up my sleeves. There’s no other way, so I reach through time with both hands, once grabbing firmly onto the handle of the black blade and the other sinking into Rachel’s decomposing body.

The girl so striking in life is completely unrecognizable in death. Seeing her bloated with sea green skin is bad enough, but it is the smell that is the worst. I won’t be able to get it out of my nose for weeks, putrid and sweet at the same time.

Holding my breath, I hack at the joints of her arms and legs, separating her like a Thanksgiving turkey. I cut out her tongue, carefully gouge out her eyes, and break into her rib cage to steal her heart. All the while, her body smolders and her blood smokes.

When I’m done, I twist and contort the pieces of her, careful never to look at the shapes I create. I go off of feeling alone, intensely aware that even the smallest mistake could end in death if I’m lucky and far, far, far worse if I’m not. Even among my kind, those like Sean Prescott to whom nothing is holy, these rites are profane and forbidden. To my knowledge, there are none who live that can teach them.

Finished, I stand at the center of my circle and say those words that first came to me from the end of all endings, those words which mean everything and are not words at all. They rumble in my chest like grave worms once invited with my tongue, rumbling long after their pronunciation. The world around me bends in a desperate bid to flee from the sight of me as I draw the knife across my throat, drowning in my black blood, sinking deeper and deeper until there is no need to breathe at all.

I keep my eyes scrunched shut as I drift down past the bodies of dead gods whose shapes alone are enough to drive even the strongest of us into eternal agony and madness, but I taste the blood streaming from their war wounds, swallow the breath from their lips until my soul buzzes against my body. They speak to me as I fall, whisper of things forbidden and forgotten, etching their meanings into my flesh.

For an eternity I slip down further and further into the void sea until I hear a scuttling in the darkness and the sound of a million eyelids sticking against dead eyeballs as they open and close, breathing like lungs, waiting.

 **ATI ME PETA BABKA,** I say, **APSE, ABUM, father, it is good to see you again.**

 **DUMU SAL,** says a voice that is no voice, **Maxine Caulfield. GUZ. GUZ. It has been a long, long time, my old friend. ZI DINGIR ZIA KANPA! Why have you come here, to the ending, to ERSET LA TARI?**

**I’ve come for your wisdom. SAMU LAMADU.**

**You thirst,** the voice cracks with laughter like a half-healed wound, **How can you thirst here, in an ocean of knowledge? ABZU TIAMATU.**

**I seek sanctuary from those who seek to kill me and the ones I love.**

**KAD. This is what you seek. Very well. I will teach you the words. EBIH KISPU.**


	6. Every Choice Has A Consequence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chloe confronts Max for answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chloe and Max finally have one on one conversation! I hope someone is as excited to read it as I was to write it. Just a few more chapters until shit hits the fan.
> 
> Hope everyone has a great rest of the week, and I'll update again on Friday.
> 
> TW: Slight mentions of cheating

"Wave upon wave now  
Here come the dreams  
And I can't see the lighthouse  
And the lighthouse can't scream  
Don't you know I need you so bad  
Tell me where the hell you been  
I got that old black magic rolling in"  
~ Josh Ritter "Old Black Magic"

## Chapter Six: Chloe

I’m standing on the beach outside Arcadia Bay, tucked into the small cove on the other side of the lighthouse, Rachel and my spot. She’s there too, Rachel, but something’s not right, and I try to tell her, I say, “Something’s not right,” but she just laughs the way she always does, her teeth flashing like the stars gleaming around the noonday sun above us. Her blonde hair snakes out around her as if she’s drowning, each strand like a live wire, sparks flying when two touch. She holds out her hand.

“What are you afraid of, Chloe?”

The sand beneath our bare feet turns to glass. Waves transform into kaleidoscopes of butterflies as they crash upon the shore. But there is a feeling a can’t put into words gnawing on my bones, one I’ve felt once before, after my dad died.

“You’re not real,” I squeeze my eyes shut, “You’re not real. You’re not real.”

The day he died, after it was all finished, my mom started calling friends and what little extended family we had, mostly on dad’s side. I stayed on the couch with my back to the door because dad always told me a watched pot never boils, and I knew if I didn’t look, it would all be some trick, and he would walk through the door like he always did after work. At school, I expected to see our old minivan in the pickup line, just like always. I expected him to come back even though I knew in my bones that he was gone.

The world changed. Overnight, all the rules I thought governed the world were broken--no, not just broken, obliterated. I didn’t just lose my dad. I lost my entire world.

“Oh, kiddo. No one ever really dies.”

Rachel is gone. I am standing in mom’s backyard with a man in his bathrobe under a starless sky.

“Don’t recognize me?” the man says, “That’s ok. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Dad?” I ask, and the man smiles, holding his arms open wide, and without even thinking, I am running, sprinting to him, throwing myself into him like I used to as a kid, sending us both sprawling on the grass. 

“Woah, woah, woah. You’re getting too big to be doing that.”

I tighten my grip before he can leave again, “I’ve missed you so fucking much.”

“Language,” dad says, but he’s smiling, and I’m drinking in the sound of the voice I forgot I had forgotten, “Be sure to put a quarter in the swear jar when you get back. You’re going to need the travel money.”

He points up at the sky, to a pod of gigantic whales swimming through the sky. Each time their tails come down, the atmosphere ripples to each horizon.

“Those whales have been feeding in depths so cold, you or I would have almost immediately frozen to death. Now they’re traveling to warmer waters. But eventually they will dive deep again,” he won’t look at me now. He’s going cold now, “The world is so big, even to them. Be careful, Chloe. Be careful not to get crushed.”

A drop of warm rain splatters against my forehead, but when I feel it, my hand comes away bloody. One of the whales cries out, and another red drop breaks against my knee. The entire sky turns red as the whales scream and bleed.

“Chloe, I am so, so proud of you,” is the last thing dad says before the whales come crashing down to earth, and I wake up drenched in cold sweat.

Shadows in my old room shift as my blinds rock in the moonlight. Mom hasn’t touched a thing since I left for college. There are still the old posters, the desk, even my bed has all the same lumps. I take a deep breath, trying to bury the grief at the bottom of my lungs.

My phone buzzes on my nightstand, the entire room shrinking as the screen lights up. I don’t bother to check it. Fifteen missed calls and close to fifty unread texts from Rachel.

_God, I need a smoke._

Tired muscles twinge as I force myself out of bed, shoving my phone into the waistband of my underwear and grabbing my lighter and a pack of cigarettes before climbing over my desk, out the window, and onto the roof. It’s three in the morning. Arcadia Bay is still and silent. Even Prescott Laboratorys’ massive tower is dark. I have the weekend until I start my internship, just two days to figure this shit out.

 _Jesus Christ, I have a superpowered ex,_ I think as I cup my hand to protect the flame of my lighter, striking and letting it extinguish over and over.

I can’t deny it, fucking insane as it is. Not after last night on the beach when Rachel turned a fistful of sand into flakes of gold or lit a bonfire for us out of thin air. I shiver but relish in the cold. It shakes the last bit of sleep out of me so I can think, and of course the first thought is a bad one.

_Rachel said she only cheated on me for money, but why would she need to fuck someone for money if she can turn sand into gold?_

I push the question out. Rachel was a whole other problem just herself, but she admitted she didn’t know the how or why. Just that Ms. Max Causwell, Sean Prescott's lapdog assistant, is a fucking time traveler come to train her and save her life. Like some _Terminator_ shit.

I take a long drag and lay back on the rough shingles. If Max is that powerful, it must mean Prescott is even more powerful, or else there is something Rachel doesn’t know. No way anyone would bend over for Prescott like her willingly, especially if they could manipulate time. God, if she could manipulate time, what could she not do, really?

Which begs the question, why has Prescott put her in charge of dealing with me? I--I can’t have any powers. Rachel said they’re usually brought on by trauma, and Christ knows I’ve had enough of that in my life. Unless… No. No.

But it doesn’t matter anyways. There’s only one person who has any answers for me. I pull out my phone and start typing out a message for Max.

* * * * *

I wore three layers to meet Max at the lighthouse, but now that I am stating her with the freezing wind whipping in every direction, I wish I’d worn more. Damn her. Damn Rachel. Damn them all. I stomp at a frozen puddle, cracking the ice so my reflection splinters into a million shards of myself.

“Why here?”

I spin around to face her. Max fucking Causwell, the apparent arbiter of my fate. She’s wearing nothing but a tank top and jeans despite the cold, her hair is motionless despite the wind, and she stands with her hands in her pockets as if this were just another casual meeting over tuition or grades. That slight ever-so-smug smile makes me grind my teeth.

“I know what you are,” I say, “Rachel told me.”

She cocks an eyebrow, “What am I then?”

“You’re,” I bite my tongue, “You’re like her. Just like her. The crazy powers. The manipulation. The--how the fuck are you out here in just a fucking tank top?”

Max blinks slow, and my hair falls motionless around my head. I am warm, about to be hot if I keep my jacket and windbreaker on.

“Manipulation has many uses, including slight temporal changes to keep a thin layer of air around me as warm as it was here during the warmest day on record. July 4th 1984, if you were curious.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You never answered me. Why here? Why the lighthouse?”

“Uh, I don’t know. It’s remote? The only people who come here are Blackwell kids wanting to drink or smoke and tourists. Neither are going to be up here on a day like today.”

Max nods, more to herself than me, weighing the information in her mind.

“So, what did Rachel tell you?”

“Everything, she--”

“Oh, she told you _everything,_ did she,” Max laughs, and I realize it’s the first time I’ve ever heard her laugh, high and clear like a church bell on Christmas morning, “Well, I’ll have some questions for her too then, if she knows _everything._ ”

I try to turn my grin into a grimace, “Alright, smartass, alright. She told me you have powers. She told me you came from a different timeline to train her because she dies in yours.”

Max snorts, “Is that what she thinks? I’m not surprised. Typical Rachel.”

“You didn’t come because of her?”

“No,” Max says, “Let’s cut to the chase, Chloe. You’ve called me here because you can’t reconcile this new revelation with how involved I’ve been in your life. You just thought I was Prescott’s administrative assistant after all, and it makes since for his assistant to deal with the tedious day to day things like scholarships and financial assistance programs, but now you know better. You know I can’t just be Prescott’s assistant, not with the kind of power Rachel has told you I possess, which makes you wonder why? Do you have powers too? Are you special in some way that will make all the pain you’ve experienced worth it?”

“Hey, wait a minute, how--”

“I didn’t come here for Rachel, Chloe. I came here for you, and not because you have any special powers. Just for you. I came because,” she pauses, eyes glazing over as she looks away, off past the horizon, “I came because you were my best friend, and things never worked out for you the way they should have. The way you deserved for them to. You didn’t have a place in that future. For a lot of reasons. And neither did I. So, I decided to try something new.”

I stare at this woman, this goddess in mortal form who has shaped my life and directed my fate. _Did anything I ever do really matter? Did I ever actually **do** anything?_

Max smiles sadly, “We all bound to our path. Fate, destiny, whatever you want to call it. There are some things even I cannot change. And one of those has always been you. I’ve never been able to get you to anything you didn’t want to in any of the millions of timelines I’ve known you. Your choices are your own. If anything, I’ve given you more choices. Given you the opportunities you deserved but never had.”

Suddenly it clicks. _She can rewind time. She’s probably kept redoing this conversation over and over until she gets the answer I like the most._

“How many times have you rewound this conversation already?”

“I haven’t. One of the first promises I made to you and to myself was to never use my power to manipulate you or gain the upper-hand in our relationship,” the corner of Max’s mouth twitches, “And I don’t need to anymore anyways, but to be fair, I’ve known you for a million years across a thousand different alternate timelines. This may be the first time round in this reality, but I’m a long way past my first rodeo, buckaroo.”

I look at her, really look at her for what must be the first time in my life. Scarred. Exhausted. But something else too.

“Oh my God. You’re a fucking time traveling badass,” I say, “And you’re a massive dork.”

Max laughs again, without an edge this time.

“Seems like you have to remind me of that last least once in every timeline.”

The air flashes and burns around us, revealing the white backdrop behind the world, and we are not alone anymore. Hazy images shift like mirages all over. Two young girls scribble on the town map. Two teenagers, one with an awesome shock of bright blue hair, sit on the bench, looking out at the sunset as snow falls around them. I don’t recognize myself until the third, where I look more like myself now, standing shoulder to shoulder with a doppelganger for Max, though in this vision I’m the one with the badass tattoo. There are countless versions of us crowding the small scenic overlook.

I look to Max, the Max I know, but she only has eyes for one of the apparitions. The same high school version of me with blue hair and tattoos hanging on to a young Max’s forearms as she holds on to mine and the sky pours down around us. We are both crying, and my past self is almost screaming something I can just make out.

“Max Caulfield. Don’t you--”

But the visions fade to a silvery shimmer and then nothing at all.

“Caulfield?” I ask, “But I know the Caulfields?”

“Yes, you do. In this timeline my mom lost me in the ICU.”

“Maxine?”

“Max. Never Maxine. Not in any timeline.”


	7. Flaws

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rachel takes some advice from Victoria and apologizes to Chloe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all!
> 
> Updating from my phone today, so forgive any formatting errors. I’ll be back to clean it up tomorrow, but it’s really important to me to stick to a release schedule. I’m one of those people who falls apart if I start deviating from my plans.
> 
> Love the conversations in this one. I really like the idea of Rachel and Victoria being friends. They have similar backgrounds, especially in my story, and I love having Rachel as a foil to Victoria’s perfectly manicured image.
> 
> Hope you all enjoy and have a great weekend!
> 
> TW: Past attempted suicide, cheating, and drug/alcohol use.

“I know I did all the shitty things to you  
I said I never ever would  
Baby, that's so like me  
Yeah, baby, that's so like me  
I don't know why I always run away  
I don't know why I always run away  
What we had was special  
I know what we had was special”  
~ Sasha Sloan “Runaway”

## Chapter Seven: Rachel

Sun seeps in through the cheap motel room curtains, but I don’t mind. It reminds me of when I first moved to L.A. without anything. No money, no friends, no powers. After that last fight with Chloe before I left, they fizzled on my fingertips. L.A. back then was my femme fatale.

L.A. before the all night parties and the ten course meals at restaurants I couldn’t pronounce and the big, empty house. That L.A., the L.A. where I had to be sure I was hidden before dark, where I had to go to soup kitchens and convince kitchen staff to give me leftovers instead of throwing them away, where I had to scrounge with other women to afford enough for a motel room on the shit side of town. That L.A. was my home, the only home I ever knew, so it’s fitting, I guess, that while Chloe and all the other old Blackwell kids are here or Seattle or whever the fuck to be home with their families, I am in a cheap motel with cheap vodka and cheap weed.

I check my phone for the thousandth time over the past week, but Chloe still hasn’t answered.

 _Do you blame her, bitch?_ I ask myself, rolling my eyes and throwing off the covers to wake up, _Not exactly like you were a great girlfriend._

I should really stop drinking. Everything’s worse for a week after, but sometimes I just can’t help myself from having a night off where my thoughts are sedated and I can just get crossfaded and watch dumb comedies and not have to think. And go to bed thinking about Chloe without the guilt.

How could I explain myself to her? How could she possibly understand? She’s got everything. Supportive family. Money coming out her ass thanks to Sean Prescott. Her life came effortlessly to her.

_You know that’s absolutely not true and definitely not fair._

I might lie like breathing, but I don’t lie to anyone more than I lie to myself. My thousand-an-hour therapist back in L.A. has been telling me to acknowledge that more, call myself and take a minute to breathe, let it sink it. I am trying to get better. Even if I don’t always want to.

_You’re a liar, you’re a liar, you’re a liar, you’re a liar, you’re a liar, you’re a liar._

Shaking my head, I take another hit from my pen, sucking in smoke until the indicator starts to blink and holding it, burning in my lungs, as I go to the bathroom to take a shower.

_You’re a liar. You’re a liar. You’re a--You’re a fire. You’re a fire. You’re a fire._

Hotel room mirrors are always the least flattering, but I can’t stop myself from looking anyways. The cheap lights give my skin a green tinge, and with my tangled bed hair, I look like I never made it, like I was another one of the unnamed girls pulled out of the water in L.A.

I shiver. A wave of goosebumps race down my arms, reminding me I am alive. Sometimes, when I’m high, I wonder. Sometimes, I think I’ve been dead a long time.

* * * * *

> Rachel:  
>  Hey, ho.  
>  What’s your status on the reunion?
> 
> Victoria:  
>  Talked to Ray  
>  He loved your lame idea  
>  So, we’re good for next weekend
> 
> Rachel:  
>  Gewd, gewd.
> 
> Victoria:  
>  Are you fucking high again?
> 
> Rachel:  
>  I’m always high lmao  
>  You send out invites?
> 
> Victoria:  
>  Are you expecting me to do everything
> 
> Rachel:  
>  Uh, yeah? Obv
> 
> Victoria:  
>  yeah, I did  
>  . . .  
>  Is everything ok?
> 
> Rachel:  
>  I’m fine.
> 
> Victoria:  
>  So… Not fine?
> 
> Rachel:  
>  Whatever  
>  At least I’m trying to do something about my problems  
>  While you’re just moping out in the cold  
>  When are you gonna finally tell your parents to go fuck themselves?  
>  Life is so much better on the other side
> 
> Victoria:  
>  Yeah, you’re really selling that
> 
> Rachel:  
>  Ain’t my parents I’m upset over.  
>  Best decision of my life
> 
> Victoria:  
>  How is Chloe?
> 
> Rachel:  
>  Worst decision of my life  
>  Never fall in love, Vic.
> 
> Victoria:  
>  No fucking worries there  
>  Love is for the weak
> 
> Rachel:  
>  Ima quote that in my speech at your wedding
> 
> Victoria:  
>  Bitch, your alcoholic ass is not giving a speech at my wedding
> 
> Rachel:  
>  If you’re gonna be my maid of honor, I’m gonna give a speech at your wedding
> 
> Victoria:  
>  So…  
>  You’re avoiding the question
> 
> Rachel:  
>  What question?
> 
> Victoria:  
>  Chloe. How’d it go with you two?  
>  Saw you two whispering together all fucking night  
>  It was disgusting
> 
> Rachel:  
>  You’re just jealous  
>  Victoria:  
>  Not even gonna dignify that  
>  have you tried  
>  you know  
>  actually apologizing?
> 
> Rachel:  
>  . . . 
> 
> Victoria:  
>  And before you say yes  
>  I mean ACTUALLY apologizing?  
>  Because if you’re planning some grand fucking thing for her at this reunion  
>  it’s not going to work unless you have, you know that right?  
>  You can’t keep going big if you’re not gonna follow through on the small stuff
> 
> Rachel:  
>  Why is it so hard?
> 
> Victoria:  
>  Because we were raised by psychopaths
> 
> Rachel:  
>  I’ll drink to that  
>  . . .  
>  I’m gonna call you
> 
> Victoria:  
>  NO.  
>  I don’t do phone calls.
> 
> Rachel:  
>  I’ll “actually” apologize IF  
>  You start opening up like this on the phone  
>  Please?  
>  Doesn’t even have to be in person  
>  . . .  
>  Victoria?  
>  Sorry. You know I love you.
> 
> Victoria:  
>  love you too

* * * * *

My heart beats in my throat against each step to Joyce Price’s front door. I’ve made this walk to many times to count, but never like this. At least I have Joyce on my side--God knows why--or it seemed that way when I called her to set up Chloe’s surprise party, but maybe Chloe hadn’t told her everything that hap--no, everything _I did_. Maybe now she’ll slam the door in my face or not open it at all, but I’ve got to try because Victoria is right.

Before I can knock, the door swings open, and Joyce runs into me, her cup of coffee bursting between us. I don’t even realize I’ve been holding my breath until the burning hot liquid is all over me and I gasp out what little oxygen I had left in my lungs.

“Oh my goodness, Rachel,” Joyce immediately drops her now empty coffee cup and car keys, “I am so, so sorry, honey. Our other hostess, some young thing not unlike the way you two girls used to be, not to say she’s--well, you know what I mean.”

“No, it’s my fault, Joyce. I’m sorry. I was just standing outside your front door like a creeper.”

“Well, you better come in and dry off with some paper towels,” she gives me a shrewd look, “I imagine you’re here to see Chloe. I’m not sure she’ll want to see you right now.”

My heart plummets out of my throat and stops beating entirely.

“I know. I just--I just had to try.”

Joyce smiles, “I’ve got to go upstairs and change, so I’ll let her know you’ll here. But then I’ve got to run. Help yourself to some OJ or whatever I’ve still got left in the fridge after feeding my college-starved daughter. Honestly, you’d think she hadn’t eaten all semester.”

I hover at the door to the kitchen to try to catch whatever Chloe’s mom tells her, but whatever she says is too quiet to make out, so I start the hopeless task of dabing the coffee stains out of my top. I’m just gonna have to throw it away, but I’d never want Joyce to realize that.

A moment later, she comes flying down the stairs alone, yelling over her shoulder, “Nice seeing you, Rachel. Try to come by sometime in the evening when we can actually catch up, honey.”

The door slams shut behind her, and Chloe still hasn’t come down, so I don’t know what to do except walk back to the living room, tiptoeing to avoid stirring the memories I can’t deal with until after I find out if I’ll be mourning them or making more.

“Hey, Rach,” Chloe says from behind me, and I spin around, taking two steps towards running to her before I stop myself. She raises her eyebrows, “What are you doing here?”

All the things I planned to say, every word I practiced in front of the shitty bathroom mirror, they all evaporate in the heat behind those words.

“I wanted you to come to L.A. with me.”

Whatever she expected me to say, it clearly wasn’t that, but her surprise only shows for a moment before she goes back to that scowl that melts me every time.

“Yeah? Well, you had a really fucking weird way of showing it.”

“I know,” I say, “And I’m so sorry. You have no idea how sorry I am. It’s been eating me alive for the past eight years, not seeing you or hearing your voice. And I wish I could take it all back. I wish I could go back and tell myself how fucking stupid and immature and ridiculous I was being. Seriously, if I got one wish, I’d choose that over world peace.”

“You always were a selfish bitch,” but her scowl is upturned at one end for a second as she says it.

“I was. Still am. Selfishly, I want you back, even though I know I don’t deserve you after everything I did. Selfishly, I want to pretend like nothing ever happened, but I know now after the party that I can’t do that.”

“It really sucked. After you cheated and dumped me and moved away.”

“Chloe, I--”

“I’m not done. To say it sucked is such a goddamn understandment. For five years I stayed here working at Two Whales with my mom. For five years I just laid in my room thinking about all the things you said before you left. For five fucking years everytime I closed my eyes I heard those words. ‘You were a mistake.’ ‘You ruined my life.’ _‘I don’t want you anymore.’_

“I stopped taking my meds. Frank--yeah, turns out our common experience with you brought us closer together instead of pushing us apart--he had to call an ambulance over our anniversary because I tried to overdose on Adderall. Stayed in a psych ward for over a month. Had to lie through my teeth to my mom about it because even after everything I didn’t want to hurt you. _I_ didn’t want to fucking hurt _you_.

“And now you want to show up and throw around some pretty words and a weak-ass apology and just expect everything to be ok? I don’t even want an apology. I want to know why? _Why?_ ”

She’s crying, shaking with anger, and I can’t help but move to hold her, but she holds up a hand.

“If you so much as fucking touch me, I swear to God, I’ll throw you out of this house,” she says, “You can tell me why, or you can get the fuck out.”

“Chloe-” I say, my arms flapping uselessly at my side.

“Why or get out,” she says, “Now.”

“I--I guess--no. I did blame you for a while about everything with my dad and my family. I know that isn’t fair or even remotely true, and I know you did everything for me. If it weren’t for you, I’d never have met my real mom or even known she was my mom. But after my dad kicked me out and everything, I didn’t feel like I could trust anyone, not even you. Which was so stupid, and I know that, but it’s the truth. My dad was my hero. He was everything to me, and when I saw him for what he was, he tore down the entire world with him as he fell off the pedestal I put him on.

“I cheated on you with Frank to try to get rid of you, to try to convince myself that you were nothing to me, and to be honest, it never worked. And yeah, I always wanted to go to L.A., but in the way it happened, I was really running away. I was too scared to be vulnerable, to let you in, so I tried to push you out in the worst way possible. All those things I said, I didn’t mean any of them. I felt the opposite way, but I was trying to tell myself that being in a relationship with you wasn’t the best decision I ever made, that you weren’t the greatest thing that ever happened to me, and that I didn’t want you so much it physically hurt.

“I know no apology will ever be enough to make up for what I did or the things that I said. But I had to try anyways. I had to try to fix what I did even though I know I can’t. Because I couldn’t not try to repair our relationship, Chloe. You weren’t just my girlfriend. You were my best friend. You were my closest confidant. You were my fucking knight in shinning armor. And I threw it all back in your face. I will never, ever be able to apologize enough.”

For a long time, Chloe stands stony faced, not saying anything. I’m sweating, and I smell like stale coffee, and I’m trying to remember what I said because honestly I think I blacked out.

“That’s the truth?” she asks finally.

“That’s the truth,” I say.

“I knew you didn’t cheat on me for money,” Chloe lets out a long breath, “Thank you. For telling me the truth.”

“You don’t ever have to thank me for anything ever. Not after everything. I’m the one who should be thanking you.”

Chloe nods, eyes hooded, “You want to know something funny?”

“What?”

“The thing that got me off my ass, got me to start college five years late, get my degrees in three years,” Chloe laughs, and it’s not entirely bitter, “It was you. Or more like pure spite because of you, I guess. I saw your commercial, your first big one, I think. The one for some cologne with you prancing about practically naked on the beach, chasing after some dude. You had made it like I always knew you would, and I was gonna be fucking sure you’d hear of me one day too. I always hoped it would hurt you like that gross commercial hurt me.”

“You want to know something funny too?” I crinkle my nose, “That guy had the worst fucking B.O. ever. I don’t think he ever put on deodorant.”

Chloe snorts, then frowns, “I’m not ready to forgive you.”

“I get it. Believe me, I do.”

“But I understand.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. I mean, you’re still a massive asshole, but I get why now,” Chloe rubs her palms against her jeans and looks around as if realizing where she is, “I talked to Max, by the way.”

“Yeah?” my stomach drops.

“She didn’t come for you,” and I never thought I’d be so glad to see the hint of that little impish smirk, “She came for me. Apparently we were best friends where ever she’s from.”

She’s twisting the knife just a bit, but I suppose I owe her that much. I’m just glad to be talking again. And to have her know everything too. I didn’t realize what a relief it would be.

“And you thought you had to worry about _me_ sleeping with her.”

Chloe rolls her eyes, “Whatever. _I’m_ not a cheater.”

“Friends?” I stick out my hand.

“Friends,” Chloe says, taking it, and I’d forgotten how warm she is, “Gotta have all the supers on my side.”


	8. The Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victoria has a bit too much to drink, and Max makes sure she gets home safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all!
> 
> I was super sad Victoria didn't get enough love in her first, super short chapter, so this one is substantially longer. Let me know what you think!
> 
> The poem Victoria recites is Ozymandias by Percy Shelly and can be found here: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/46565/ozymandias
> 
> TW: Alcohol use, suicide, PTSD

"There's something in the wind  
I can feel it blowing in  
It's coming in softly  
On the wings of a bomb  
There's something in the wind  
I can feel it blowing in  
It's coming in hotly  
And it's coming in strong  
Lately I've been thinking it's just someone else's job to care  
Who am I to sympathize when no one gave a damn?  
I've been thinking it's just someone else's job to care  
Who am I to wanna try but  
Change is a powerful thing  
People are powerful beings  
Trying to find the power in me to be faithful"  
~ Lana Del Rey "Change"

## Chapter Eight: Victoria

The Prescott estate is three hours outside of Arcadia Bay, and two of those are spent driving through the wooded mountains Sean bought in a bit of conservation PR. The mansion itself is surrounded by crenelated, twenty-foot-tall walls that would put most medieval castles to shame. It’s only entrance is a massive wrought iron gate compete with gun toting guards. Impressive, sure, but confusing as well. The Prescotts were a wealthy family going back a few generations, but they were always bargain bin Rockefellers up until just before my tenth birthday, when Prescotts’ personal wealth as well as his company's stock price soared. 

Sean himself went from business savvy to making flawless predictions on everything from gold and oil to fine art and political revolutions. His company expanded alongside him until it had a division in every market imaginable, from educational app development for toddlers to AI military drones, blue-collar-shipping to cutting edge technological advancements.

At the gate, one of the guards scans my license plate while two others searched my car from hood to trunk before waving me on. The interior of the compound is more of a small town than a mansion, though of course there is a mansion at the center of it all, several hundred thousand square feet across three stories with enough rooms to require a housekeeping team larger than a small country’s standing military.

I take the main drive up to the front while others divert towards different parking lots and guest houses. The Chases have remained good friends with the Prescotts even as their power skyrocketed and ours plateaued. A reward for our good faith, our loyalty. Keywords for my dad and mom laundering God knows how much money through private museums and art sales.

_How big a house can you possibly need?_

Our house growing up was around six thousand square feet along the east coast of Lake Washington. My house, really, seeing as neither of my parents were there much. It was all sweeping marble countertops white as snow, space-grade aluminum trimmings that stayed cold as ice even in the summer, and hard pieces of furniture which I was never to sit on under any circumstances. I could and did have conversations with my echos. Small wonder Nathan hasn’t seen the outside of a psych ward since Blackwell.

“Ms. Chase,” says the valet as he opens my door for me and offers a hand, “Welcome.”

“Thank you,” I say, not taking the hand and brushing past him.

There are three lines to the front door, each with a group of guards checking IDs and invitations, but Sean’s bodyguard waves me on from her spot in front of the main entryway. I can feel a thousand burning eyes on my back, so I add a little extra swing to my hips as I climb the steps to her. 

For a beat, the two of us stand before each other, her appearing to see straight through my blacked out sunglasses and me struggling to get a read on her flat face. At least she had the sense to put on a suit jacket and slacks for the exhibition, though combat boots ruin the cut of her pants. I wouldn’t be the one to tell her.

“Victoria,” she said, “Your parents are already here getting a sneak peak of the headliner in Sean’s study. They requested you wait for them in the east ballroom, but by now they’re probably waiting on you.”

“Oh, the _east_ ballroom, of course.”

I swear I see the woman smile before she says, “Do you need an escort?”

_What is her name? I should know. M-something? Mary? No, that’s not it._

“Never.”

Every inch of the Prescott Mansion is decked out for Christmas. Trees brush the ceiling in multiple rooms, and all the overhead lights have been turned off in favor of the soft glow of string lights. I snag a glass off of a passing waiter’s platter, the crowd dividing for me on my way to meet my dear parents. The champagne is dry enough to turn my mouth into a desert, so I grab two more, this time holding the waiter while I throw them back and set the empty glasses back on her tray.

Mom is waiting by the door. They probably had to take out a loan to get the dress she’s in, and she’ll never wear it again.

“You’re late,” she says.

“Only fashionably.”

My mother purses her lips but says nothing, leading the way across the ballroom to Prescott’s own table, father seated at his left with two empty seats for either of us. Not for the first time, I ponder about how much easier it is to buy the rich than the poor. My father would call that intelligence. 

_I used to too. Before Kate. Before everything._

Sean rises from the table when he sees us coming, and all the others, most already drunk, struggle to imitate. He looks almost nondescript in the sea of suits and dresses like my mom’s which surround him, but I know it’s deceiving, a look created by a team of twenty. His gaze has always made me uncomfortable. There’s a kind of hunger to them, but it’s cold, not like most other rich people. It’s the hunger of a famine past but not forgotten.

“Victoria,” he says to me, “So good to see you again. Nathan asked me to thank you for your letters.”

“No problem,” I say, feeling my mother’s fingernails dig into my arm, so I add, “I mean, I miss him a lot. I never hear back. How is his treatment going?”

_After everything that happened, he’s lucky treatment is all he got._

Prescott eases back into his seat, “Slowly. And not terribly effectively. His mother, you know, had health issues as well, rest her soul.”

“This was your first wife?” a woman I don’t recognize says.

“My first and only.”

“Never say never, Sean,” her tittering laugh goes unshared, but Sean smiles.

“I think you’ve had enough to drink, Elyssa.”

My eyes flick back to the woman to catch her reaction, but instead I’m taken aback to see Prescott’s bodyguard has materialized out of the crowd behind her. For the first time, she looks tired, though remembering her smirk at the entrance, I have a hard time it's from anything other than disdain.

_What was her name?_

“Oh, I meant no offense. I just mean to say, most of our first partners, the partners we had before I got rich, they start to become lacking,” she looks around the table for backup, but no one will meet her eye, “Come on, I know for a fact that every single one of you at this table has been married a dozen times.”

“That’s enough,” Sean rises from his seat again and gestures to the bodyguard behind her, “This is Maxine Causwell, my head of security. She’ll make sure you make it to your guest house safely.”

“Sean, I--” but whatever she would have said dies in her throat when Max-- _that’s her name, Max!_ \--puts a hand on her shoulder.

“I would go before you embarrass yourself any further. We will conclude our business in the morning,” he exchanges a look with Max, who almost imperceptibly nods, and in the blink of an eye, the woman is gone before she can protest any further.

“I apologize. Elyssa is the daughter of a CEO who I’m buying out. He sent her to try and have her learn a little here,” Sean shakes his head and looks to my father, “You have no idea how good a daughter you have, Luke. You know, children are the most common fault that cause dynasties to crumble, but with Victoria, I know your names will be remembered long after you are gone”

I force myself to mimic my parents beaming smile.

* * * * *

After the rest of the party move to the backyard for this quarter's demonstrations, I concience my father to stay at the bar to “network” for the Chase Space. Which really means get absolutely shit faced with the other good children come to uphold their family’s “legacy.”

An old quote comes back to me from when I was in elementary and my dad paid me $100 for each poem I could recite to him from memory. I don’t slur the searing words in my head.

_“And on the pedestal, these words appear:  
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;  
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!  
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay  
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare  
The long and level sands stretch far away.”_

“Family,” my dad used to tell me, “Family is all that remains. What you do for your family will be carried on by your children and your children’s children. They may forget and their memory might fade, you will become legend, then mythology, and finally the fate which decided the course of your descendants forever. Your actions today become their future tomorrow.”

I down my third shot of tequila. As my reservations are numbed to nothing, I’ve gone from cocktails to unsophisticated mixes to straight shots. The world has a pleasant hum around its edges now. My bartender’s skin is glowing in the soft yellow light of the hanging lamps, a light of itself, and she’s spending longer and longer at my end of the bar. Though given the other guests, it’s hardly a sign. A bunch of boys who never outgrew their frat, probably because for them, their entire world is a fraternity where they can keep failing upwards until their net worth comes close to matching their ego. 

They huddle up at the other end of the bar, talking too loud and boosting each other until one of them gets up the courage to get rejected by me, but they love it. Rich boys love being rejected. Too a point, anyways, but I intend to be blacked out at home long before we ever reach that point. The benefits of being a rich girl, I guess. It’ll be up to the staff, the waitresses and house cleaners and my bartender--

 _ **My** bartender,_ I repeat to myself, _There you are, Victoria. There you are. No better than they are._

I stand up shakily, waving for the girl without meeting her eyes.

“Here,” I say, grabbing her hand and stuffing a hundred dollar bill into it, “No, don’t say anything. Just take it please.”

“I’m sorry, miss, but Mr. Prescott doesn’t allow--”

“Tell Sean it’s a bonus from me for having to deal with those shitheads,” I nod towards the group of guys, “He’ll love that. And he knows I don’t take no for an answer.”  
I make myself turn away before she can say anything else, before I see the way her mouth moves again. Because I know as well as she does that this house has eyes. Because I know what my parents will do if I slip up again.

 _When are you going to tell your parents to fuck off?_ Rachel’s voice in my head again.

 _Rachel, Rachel, Rachel. Rachel Amber,_ my drunk mind has no answer to her question, so it rolls her name over and over my tongue instead, _Rachel, do you remember when I tried to drug you?_

No, I’m no better at all. No better at all. There’s her answer. She was trapped, but I am at home here with these assholes, douchebags, and bitches because I myself am an asshole, a douchebag, and a bitch. And I think of Kate, poor Kate Marsh,and all the anger and hate turned to guilt and another kind of hate. Hate for myself. Hate for Nathan.

 _I didn’t know_ , I protest, _How could I have known?_

But it doesn’t really matter whether I knew or didn’t, and I know that. All that jealousy. Taking the photos. Spreading the link. **My** Kate. Just like **my** bartender. My stomach turns, disgusted by the poison in my veins, the poison that’s all my own, all me. I see is her limp body and her glassy eyes glowing under the black light engraved into my eyes like an afterimage of the sun.

I push my way into one of the bathrooms, not even able to lock the door as I stumble onto the floor and crawl the rest of the way to the toilet just in time before throwing up, the alcohol in it burning my throat on the way up. Wave after wave, I think five times I throw up before the door opens quietly and the lock slides into place and I don’t care anymore except a vague hope that whoever it is will kill me.

Instead rough hands gather my hair and pull it out of my face just before a fresh wave make me clutch onto the porcelain rim.

“Kate?” I ask.

“No,” and it’s Max because of course it would be her, “Too much to drink?”

“What do you think?” I ask, immediately regretting the tone, “Sorry--”

Another wave. My stomach is starting to cramp, and I’m trembling against her.

“It’s cool.”

“No, it’s not. I’m sorry. I’m such a fucking bitch.”

Max just laughs, and I don’t know why. Why is she laughing?

“Yeah, I definitely think you’ve had too much to drink, Victoria. Do you need to throw up again?” she asks, and when I shake my head, she says, “Alright. I’m going to let go for a second, ok? Just for a second.”

Because I am leaning on her, I realize, and for a split second I’m way too aware of every taught muscle under her suit before she pulls away. I barely register the sound of a faucet.

“Why are you doing this?” I ask.

“It’s my job, remember?”

_Her job. Of course._

“I’m sorry. I’m alright. Really, if I can just sit here for a minute, I’ll be ok.”

“Yeah,” Max’s eyes scan me up and down, and I’m blushing for some stupid reason I’ll call shame, “I don’t think so.”

She hands me a warm wet towel and motions to my face, “Might want to get cleaned up a bit before I get you out of here. Appearances and all that.”

I look _her_ up and down, sniff, and say, “Doesn’t look like you’re too concerned about appearances.”

“If you like, I can throw you over my shoulder and haul your ass back to a guest house with your mouth covered in vomit.”

“Please,” I clean my face and throw the towel in the bin, “I’d like to see you try.”

“You’ve got a lot of sass for someone who just puked their guts out in front of me.”

“You’re talking back a lot for being someone my family could buy a million times over.”

“Oh please, Princess Chase,” Max laughs again, “Your family couldn’t even begin to afford me.”

I cock my head, “Yeah? What’s your price?”

“If you have to ask, you can’t afford it.”

She offers a hand, and I take it, but I don’t have enough control over my legs to keep myself from falling against her again.

“Can you walk?” she asks.

“Yes, I can walk,” I snap, though my voice is shaking almost as much as my legs.

My brain has started to spin in my head. I put one hand against the wall and close my eyes, but that only makes the dizziness worse.

“Give me your heels,” Max says, rolling her eyes at the look I give her, “I’m not going to steal them. Not really my style.”

“Do you have a style?” I ask, but I take off my shoes and hand them to her all the same.

“Yeah, I do. It’s called ‘I'd rather be comfortable and be able to walk after a few drinks,’” Max says, “Now take my arm, and lets get you out of here before your parents come looking for you.”

Right. My parents. I feel like vomiting again.

“Are you going to tell them?”

_This house has eyes._

“Relax, Princess. It’s my job to make sure everything stays classy for the journalists, not rat trust fund babies out to mommy and daddy. Now let’s go. I do have other things to do tonight.”

She leads me out the door and towards the main lobby. I keep my head down to avoid the curious glances. Another guest thrown out, and whether Max tells them or not, my parents will find out. There will be hell to pay come morning.

“Please,” I whisper to Max, hating the tremor in my voice, “Please, I don’t want to stay here tonight. Can you have somebody drive me home. I’ll pay.”

She doesn’t look at me, but I see the way her jaw tightens. Disgust, it must be, and who can blame her? All those images of Kate I will never be able to forget breach the surface of my subconscious, spewing ugly thoughts, deserved thoughts.

_Your crush got date raped, and instead of helping, you got jealous._

_You’re so fucking awful, you can’t even help but ruin the few people you actually care about._

_You made Kate Marsh attempt suicide._

I see her in her hospital bed, legs wrapped in plaster and hanging from the ceiling, and I hear myself telling her, confessing everything I’d done, even though I knew she would destroy me. I had to tell her. I needed her to know. My next breath catches at the back of my throat and leaves as a sob. Thick, ugly tears stream down my face. People turn to look, but I don’t care. I don’t care anymore.

“Alright, alright. I’ll drive you home. Just stop,” Max wipes my tears away with the hand that isn’t keeping me from falling on my face, “Take a deep breath. You’re alright.”

I _am_ alright, and that’s the fucking problem. People like me never get what they deserve. Rich people, powerful people never get what they deserve.

* * * * *

The road hums under us as Max drives me down the mountain, the only sound since we left the party. A full moon casts the forest in silver, and I think once or twice I may have seen the shadow of a doe in the pines. It is amazing how, almost a decade later, the forest has sprung back to life after the forest fire that devoured the land around Arcadia Bay. Almost gives me hope.

In the dark cabin, Max’s eyes are fathomless and fixed firmly on the road. Mine can’t decide where to settle. Even after throwing up, my body is processing the last of the alcohol, polluting my blood with it. 

“Thank you,” I say.

“Don’t mention it.”

“No,” I lean up in my chair, hand touching her arm, “Really. Thank you.”

“No. Really. Don’t mention it.”

Everything about her seems to shift in the dark until she looks almost like a waxwork of herself. Her hair is ever so slightly too dark. Her skin too pale. He voice too deep. She obviously doesn’t want to talk, but I’m drunk as fuck and can’t help myself from asking, “How old are you?”

She does look at me then, eyes taking me in, stripping me of all airs and pretenses.

“Why?”

“Just curious. I remember you first started working for Sean when I was a kid, like, ten, but you haven’t changed at all.”

“I’m only thirty five,” Max laughs, but I can tell it’s forced, “What, you expect me to have grey hair or something?”

“I’m twenty five now, so that would mean you were, what, twenty when Sean hired you to be head of security?”

Max pauses, “Yup.”

“You’re telling me at at age twenty you were head of security for one of the richest people in the world? Bull shit.”

“He wasn’t one of the richest people in the world when I got the job,” Max says, “And not all of us were coddled our entire lives. When I was twenty, I’d already seen more than you ever will in your entire life.”

I lean in towards her. The tequila is making me bold. My memories of Kate leave me desperate for a distraction.

“You’re lying. You’re not thirty five, are you? It’s ok, I’m into older women.”

All the tension that had been building between Max’s shoulders melts away as she busts out laughing.

“What?” I ask, on the back foot again, “What are you laughing at?”

“Did you just,” Max cackles again, “Did you just hit on me? Jesus Christ. And I thought you didn’t have any surprises in you, but that’s a new one. No, you’re right. I am lying about my age. I’m actually a millennia old, time traveling assassin from a parallel timeline. Way too old to be your drunk one night stand.”

It takes me a minute to process it because sure, I’m drunk, but also, did she just reject me?

“You made a move forty-five minutes into a three hour drive? How drunk are you?”

“Fuck. Off.”

Max’s chuckles stop almost as suddenly as they started.

“But it’s not about that, is it?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“This is about Kate,” it’s not a question.

“Who?”

Max glances at me as she takes a turn way too fast, “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

I sigh. Words bubble up in my chest. How many people know, actually know? I can count them on one hand. Taylor, Rachel, and of course, Kate herself. And maybe it's the liquor or maybe it is something to do with this woman and the secrets kept as scars all across her body with older eyes than I’ve ever seen. She’s like Prescott in that way, but where as his make me feel like prey, hers only make me sad.

“I had a crush on her. My first crush, actually,” I laugh and look out the window, watch the green and black and silver meld together as we speed down the mountain, “I didn’t even know I could have a crush until I met her. I thought I was a psychopath or something, but no. No, I just hadn’t met the right person, and Kate was the right person, in every way. She was--still is--the single kindest person I’ve ever met in my entire life.

“I told her everything, you know. Everything I did to her. And you know what she told me? You know what she told me on the hospital bed I put her in? She told me forgave me.”

I make a strange, strangled sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

“I invited her to a party. I don’t know why. It clearly wasn’t her scene. Wasn’t a good idea. But it was all I could think to do. Fuck, I didn’t even know how to ask a girl out. She had no idea I meant it as a date, obviously, or she wouldn’t have gone. The whole Christian thing. Which is cool. Sucks, but it's cool.

“Anyways, I didn’t know it until after, but Nathan had been date raping girls. He drugged her drink. Thought it would be fucking funny, I guess, to corrupt the Christian girl. He was always a sick fuck, even when we were kids. But I didn’t know, so I just think she’s wasted, and guys start making out with her, and of course she couldn’t do anything, didn’t even know what was happening, and **FUCK** \--”

I slam my head back into my headrest. Once, twice, until flashes of light light up the dark behind my eyes. I’m crying for real now, and I know I look even more like a fucking bird, and I feel shitty for even thinking about how I look when I’m talking about Kate.

“So, I got jealous. Took some videos. Posted them online. Sent everyone the link. A week later she tried to kill herself. Jumped off the roof of Blackwell. Because of me. All because of me. All because of me.”

I look at Max, but I find no refuge in her hard face, her silence.

“Are you going to say anything?”

“What am I supposed to say?” Max asks, “Am I supposed to comfort you. Tell you what you did was ok? That you’re not to blame? You know all those things aren’t true, so I’m not going to waste my breath.”

She sighs, rubbing the bridge of her nose, “And none of this is going to matter anyways. Not to you.”

“Wait, what?”

“You’re not going to remember any of this in the morning.”

“Ok, I am not that drunk.”

Max looks at me with those big, sad eyes, and------------------------------------------------------------

* * * * *

My sleep is shattered by my phone’s alarm. My head feels like someone tried and failed to perform brain surgery with a rusty axe. I silence my phone and throw it into my clothes hamper.

_Fuck me, the party, _I force myself to sit up, _How much did I have to drink last night?___

__There’s a note on my nightstand written in an unfamiliar scrawl.__

> __Victoria,__  
>  You had too much to drink and didn’t want to stay at the compound, so I drove you back home.  
>  Drink lots of water,  
>  Max Causwell 

_Max Causwell. Where have I heard that name before?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to clear up any confusion, at the end of the car ride, I'm implying Max rewound the entire car trip to undo it but moved Victoria through a standstill to get her home safe. The super long collection of dashes is used to signify a break in a timeline when the chapter's POV is unable to recognize it.
> 
> See you all on Wednesday!


	9. Goddesses and Gods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kate sets Max up with Victoria.
> 
> Sean takes Max to kill a god.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everybody!
> 
> Sorry for the late update. I had some medical issues come up. This chapter is pretty long, so hopefully that makes up for its tardiness.
> 
> Also, no promises, but I hope you update more regularly over this weekend. I have a chapter I really want to publish on Christmas as a kind of "Holiday Episode," but I'll need to cover some ground if that's gonna happen.
> 
> And yes, I will post another chapter later today in accordance with my update schedule. Gotta at least try to stay consistent. :)
> 
> There's some more Sumerian flavor here. If you're interested you can find the guide I used here https://www.bulgari-istoria-2010.com/Rechnici/Sumerian_Dictionary.pdf but it's not necessary.
> 
> Sean Prescott talks about "The Great Filter" theory, which, in brief, is a proposed theory to explain why we haven't encountered a bunch of Star Trek--or Dalek--style aliens by saying there must be a high likelihood of huge cataclysmic events which stop most or all civilizations from reaching Star Trek level. Wikipedia here if you're interested in reading more: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Great_Filter
> 
> TWs: violence, alcoholism, PTSD, suicide, and a brief flashback in a psych ward
> 
> I love you all!

"You got some change inside your pocket  
But it doesn't change a thing  
I'm a stranger to your smile  
But I have seen some stranger things"  
~ The Revivalists "Change"

## Chapter Nine: Max

“You look tired, Max,” Dr. Kate Marsh switches on her space heater before sitting down.

“I guess I look how I feel then, Doc.”

“Trouble sleeping?”

“I never have trouble sleeping,” I say, only a half lie. I don’t have any trouble sleeping but only because I don’t need to sleep anymore, “I have problems being awake.”

“Problems like?”

“I don’t know,” I pause, shrug to emphasize my point, “I just thought I’d seen everything, you know? Just when I thought I had everything figured out, the universe comes out of nowhere with a curve ball.”

“My dad is an astrophysicist, and one of the things he always says is that even with an unlimited budget and lifespan, he would never understand everything. Reaching each horizon would just reveal another horizon. He finds it comforting in a way. The fact he isn’t able to to know everything leads him to trust in faith,” Kate smiles, “But you don’t strike me as someone who puts a lot of stock in faith. Or someone who would be comforted by losing control.”

“I guess I was finally starting to feel like I was regaining my balance after--after everything. And then I just get the rug pulled out from under me fucking again.”

“It seems to me that you’re defining your stability based on exterior forces, but maybe you should start to look within for balance and meaning. Faith doesn’t have to be put in God or religion, you know. You can have faith in yourself, your own ability to be ok no matter what may come, and I think your life is a perfect example of that resilience.”

“But I’m not ok, Dr. Marsh.”

“You don’t feel ok, I agree, but I would argue you are very much ok. After everything you’ve experienced, you’re living a successful life. You’re moving forward, even if you’re numb to it right now. You’ve already begun the admittedly difficult process of working through all the trauma you’ve experienced to find meaning in it. Moving on is human and inevitable. Our job in therapy is to make sure the meaning you take to heart isn’t self destructive,” Kate cocks her head, “I imagine whoever it was who made you question your worldview in part questioned the conclusions you’ve come to while processing your trauma.”

“Yeah, I guess. I met someone--well, it feels like I met them for the first time, but I’ve known them for a long time.”

“This person, they were different from how you remembered?”

“No. Or at least not exactly. She was drunk, and she said some things I didn’t know, things that changed the way I see her,” I crack my neck and look out the window, glad Prescott’s got a job for me tonight, “I thought I had her nailed. And then there’s been some other stuff too. People just aren’t consistent.”

“I doubt you are consistent either. Humanity has a way of ‘finding’ or really imagining patterns in complete chaos. Meaning is what you make it.”

“That sounds like you’re saying nothing matters.”

“Oh, absolutely not. But I do think you will decide for yourself what matters,” Kate smiles, “I look at it this way. To give into existentialism for a moment, imagine this is all there is. No afterlife. No second chances. And in the grand scheme of things, you and I and even humanity itself will fade back to the dust we came from, no more than a footnote in the history of the universe, if even that. You’re actions ultimately change nothing, mean nothing, but I would argue in the face of certain meaninglessness, choosing to act in spite of that void creates meaning.  
“Imagine we are all matches set aflame which will burn away to nothing. But doesn’t our use of our flame to burn as much as we can or warm each other against the pressing darkness become even more powerful in the face of our certain extinction?”

“I guess,” I say.

“Let me use a more personal example. You never gave up on Chloe. Even through all the suicide attempts, the fact that she could never let go of her ex to be present with you, you stayed by her side. I think it might be easy now that she’s gone to wonder what the point was of everything you did, that your decision to stay with her was meaningless in the end, but choosing her, choosing love over and over and over again shows just how powerful that choice was, how meaningful it was--regardless of whether your choice had any impact on the way things ended.  
“I wonder if the reason running into this old acquaintance has made you feel so unsure is because she forced you to recognize the power you have to move on, to start over. Here is someone you thought you knew, yet they have broken free of your expectations and chosen to become something new and surprising. Maybe it makes you wonder if all these big questions about meaning really mean anything themselves? Maybe it makes you angry that Chloe had those same choices but still chose her ex and death instead of you? Maybe it scares you to know that your meaning doesn’t have to be bound to--or as you say it, ‘consistent” with--your trauma, that you can move on or even reinvent yourself entirely?”

 _Yeah, maybe,_ I think, _Or maybe it made me realize it’s me and Victoria vying for worst human._

I can’t decide if I want to scream or cry or curse or all three in a single breath. My brain pounds against the inside of my skull with each beat of my heart. It’s too much. It’s all too much.

_“We can’t keep doing this,” Chloe’s face is white under black tear streaks._

_She falls against our living room wall. I’ve come close to chewing a hole through my cheek. After each commercial break, the reported death toll swells by thousands._

_“What do you want me to say? It was either them or us, and I chose us. Fuck them.”_

_Her eyes widen as if seeing me for the first time. I reach for her, but she smacks my hand away._

_“Please,” I can’t cry anymore, “Please.”_

_“Please what, Max?”_

_“What am I supposed to say? I would let everyone burn if it meant keeping you, Chloe.”_

_“Keeping me? Keeping me? Is that what you’re doing?” she turns away, starts to walk away._

_“No. Chloe. **No.** ”_

_She comes back at me with her teeth bared and her eyes hard, “Maybe you can keep doing this, but I can’t. I can’t live this way. You might be able to keep my body, but you’re going to take everything from me until there is no me anymore. Every fucking time. Everybody at work. All my friends. None of them will have made it out, will they? And then you’ll want to just move somewhere else. You’ll promise it’ll be different this time, and it will be. Instead of a hurricane it’ll be flood or a fucking earthquake,” she jabs a finger at the telivision and the ruins of L.A., “And you’ll keep up coming up with the perfect words until I--”_

_The words die in her throat. She recoils from me. Backing away until there is nowhere else to go._

_“You’ve been rewinding, haven’t you?”_

_“Chloe, I--”_

_“God damn it. Answer me,” but I can’t, I can’t, and she laughs, “You have. After everything. After all your promises.”_

_“I’m sorry,” I say, raising my hand, “I love you.”_

_“This isn’t love, Max.”_

“Some things to think about, but maybe not all at once,” Kate’s voice brings me back, “What about the homework I gave you? Did you take any pictures since our last session?”

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, I have them here,” I pass over the folder full of pictures I brought in with me, “They’re staged recreations of famous historical photos but taken from another angle. Kind of a play on perspective, I guess.”

“You could say these go hand in hand with what we were talking about. Perspective changes meaning. Creates it sometimes,” Kate’s eyebrows raise with each photo she sees until they disappear entirely beneath her bangs, “Wow, Max. These are incredible. You know Blackwell, the school I went to, had an advanced photography program.”

“No. I had no idea.”

“I might be able to connect you with someone who could be interested in putting these on display. Would you be interested in that? No pressure of course, but it might be good to get yourself out there again.”

“Who did you have in mind?” I ask to buy myself time even though I know exactly who she has in mind.

“Victoria Chase, she’s daughter of the duo who created the Chase Space, and she opened an offshoot here in Portland, actually.”

_Fuck it._

“Yeah, alright.”

What is it Prescott always tells me? Curiosity is our kinds’ intuition. After you live long enough and see so much, there’s little that can surprise you, and you should pursue what does. 

_Just never thought it would be Victoria Chase who surprised me._

“Awesome. I might be able to get you a meeting today, actually. She owes me a few favors.”

_That’s putting it mildly._

* * * * *

Victoria Chase’s gallery sits prim and proper on the banks of the Willamette River, looking more like a Victorian--I roll my eyes, _how appropriate_ \--estate than any museum I’ve been to. A few strange sculptures of twisted metal dot the small green space outside, and on a winter Wednesday afternoon so close to Christmas, the only other car in the parking lot is Victoria’s Jaguar. No sense in putting it off, so I get out of my car and start up the sidewalk. 

Funny, at this point I’ve made pacts with dead gods, killed more people than I can count, but my stomach has butterflies for the first time in decades. Without realizing, I’d clung to the false idea that I was, at the very least, better than Victoria Chase, which is ridiculous in retrospect given the whole murdered-more-people-than-I-can-count thing but is even more ridiculous after learning everything she did the night of the party.

More than anything, I am wary of talking with her anymore, weary of the memories I long to bury which are mirrored in my high school bully. The cliche is supposed to be the bully coming to terms with their shitheadedness and begging the people they picked on for forgiveness, not the bullied doofus turning into such an asshole their bully becomes the only person they can relate to.

Sometimes, I can’t help but wonder how the fuck I got to where I am. It’s like those long road trips I used to take with Chloe back when we were still ok, when I would space out for a minute only to find out we’d been driving for hours and were in an entirely different state.

A chime goes off when I open the gallery door, and almost immediately the click of heels on the concrete floor echoes through the building so it seems a thousand Victoria’s are descending on me at once. But no, fortunately there is only one, dressed to kill with an immaculate, all white outfit that leaves her arms bare. She stops dead in her tracks when she sees me.

“Max? What are you doing here?”

“That’s me,” I hold out the portfolio I’d taken to Kate, “Apparently I’m here to try and sell you some photos.”

Victoria purses her lips, her eyes narrowing at the folder as if it might have anthrax in it.

“Chill, Princess” I say, partially to myself, “And no, Kate doesn’t know I know you.”

“She your therapist or something now?”

“Everyone needs to talk sometimes. Listen, if you’re not interested, I can just go.”

“No. No, come on. Follow me,” she turns on her heels and says with her back turned, “I never got to thank you for giving me a ride home.”

“No problem.”

“You didn’t have to. I’m sure Prescott would have wanted his head of security present.”

_Well technically I was never gone._

“I’ve got a good team.”

“Hhhmm,” Victoria hums, gesturing for me to enter an office walled off from the gallery with glass, “Kate sent over a preview of some of your stuff. You sure it’s yours?”

“The fuck that’s supposed to mean?”

Victoria takes a seat in her armchair, both of us seemingly more comfortable with a desk between us.

“It means they’re good. Really good. Better than I would expect of someone,” her eyes scan over me, “Like you.”

_Well at least some things never change._

“Yeah, Victoria. They’re mine.”

She holds out her hand for the portfolio. Each of her nails are the bright red of fresh blood. I raise an eyebrow, eyes flicking from her hand to her eyes.

“Ugh, will you please show me your fucking photos?”

“Of course, Victoria, thank you so much for asking,” I say, placing the portfolio in her hand with a flourish, and the corner of her mouth twitches.

“So what’s the deal. Like, how did you come up with these? I assume they’re staged.”

“They are,” I lie, “I just thought it might be an interesting study of perspective to take famous historical photos from another angle. You know, uh, how perspective created meaning and all.”

Her eyes snap up from my photos, making me sweat for a moment before going back to the folder.

“Well, they’re good. Really good,” Victoria pauses, “How much do you want for them?”

She means it to come off as casual, and she keeps her head down, which gives me a chance to look at her face full on without risk of getting caught. The first thing I notice is that the makeup around her eyes has been touched up. Done hastily by the look of it.

“Is everything alright, Victoria?” I ask, and Jesus, that gets her attention.

“Did my dad send you here?”

“What? No--”

“Because if he did, you can go back to taking it up the ass from Prescott and tell my father he can----------”

 _Ok, bad idea,_ I think as I rewind back the past few seconds.

“How much do you want for them?” she asks again.

“I don’t know, honestly. I’ve never sold anything before,” I lie.

“Well, if you’d like I could have it appraised by a third party, but to be honest with you, I’d really love to have these in my collection as soon as possible, so I’m willing to let you name a number.”

“Honestly, I don’t really need the money.”

“Prescott pays you that well, huh?” Victoria asks, “Then what do you want? I won’t fuck you, you know.”

“What? Jesus, no.”

“I get that sometimes. Too often, honestly,” the tip of her nose crinkles.

“Really?”

“Ok, don’t be _too_ surprised.”

“No, I just can’t believe anyone would say that.”

“You’re pretty naive to be working security for Sean Prescott then. I bet most of them just want to try to blackmail my father. Or he sent them himself to test me.”

“That’s… really fucked up.”

“Please. Don’t pretend you haven’t heard him bragging about my chastity to all the other old men at those fucking parties,” Victoria eyes her reflection in the glass behind me, “I’ll give you fifty thousand dollars for all of them.”

I choke, “Fifty grand? For some photos?”

“I mean, listen, if you’ll take less, I’m not going to argue with you,” Victoria smiles at me genuinely for, I think, the first time, and I find myself smiling back, “They really are good, you know. I can’t believe they’re staged. Your eye for detail is incredible.”

_Did Victoria Chase just compliment me?_

“Thank you.”

“And to be honest, I could really use a good buy right now.”

“Your dad?” I ask, ready for a rewind, but Victoria just considers me.

“Did he send you here?”

“No.”

“No. I didn’t think so. You coming from Kate and all. But you never know with dad,” Victoria sighs, “Well, are you going to accept my offer or not? Fifty thousand. I won’t go any higher.”

“You’ve got a deal,” I hold out my hand over the desk, and after a second Victoria takes it, her grip softer than I expected.

“Good. I’ll write you a check and then we can drink to it, uh, if you want.”

“Why not? It’s been a long day.”

“You’re telling me,” Victoria fills out the check with a fountain pen before pulling out a decanter half full of liquor and a glass for me, “And it’s almost Christmas. Worst time of the year.” 

She fills my glass almost to the brim, and we both pretend not to note that her glass was already out as she refills it.

“You don’t like Christmas?”

“Did I not just say that,” but she ends with a smile, “Yeah. You know. Family.”

“I don’t have any family,” I say, knocking back my glass in one and shivering a little.

“Excuse me. Did the fucking hard ass bodyguard shudder at a little bourbon?”

“I’m pretty sure you’re an alcoholic if you don’t.”

Victoria raises her glass in a mock toast to that, making a show of downing the liquor before slamming her glass down on her desk and laughing.

“You’d be an alcoholic too if you had to spend Christmas with my parents,” she says, “I’m having another. You?”

The curiosity in me can’t help itself. What more surprises could Victoria have for me?

“Why not.”

“I totally would have gone higher, by the way. On the photos. If you had taken them to my mom, you might have gotten six figures.”

“Should I be insulted?”

“No. I’d pay that much if I had the money. I guarantee you all the art professors are going to go nuts over this. Drag all their classes down to see it,” she leans back in her chair, taking steady sips this time and kicking off the heel of her shoe under the glass table, “So, what’s your deal?”

“What do you mean?” I ask cautiously.

“I mean, you’re a bodyguard and a photographer. Doesn’t seem like a normal combo.”

“People are often surprising,” I don’t usually drink anymore, and I can already feel a buzzing under my dry tongue, a heat in my face.

“I wish that were true. But I think most people are disappointing,” she’s back to looking at her reflection instead of me.

“I think that has more to do with the people you’re hanging out with rather than humanity itself. Spending a day in my shoes would melt your mind.”

“Did you choose it? You know, being a bodyguard, all of that? Or were you almost forced into it?”

“Uh, I don’t know. I definitely wasn’t forced into it. I don’t think many people are forced into careers, at least here. I think I a lot of people turn a blind eye to just how many choices they have to stay comfortable. You know, so they can make a certain amount of money or make their family happy or whatever. But I also know that shit happens nobody can foresee and you never know where you’re gonna end up for sure. Regardless of your choices. It's always some combination of the two. Is for me at least.”

Victoria nods slowly before drinking the rest of her bourbon in one long swallow.

“What about you?” I ask, “Was it always your dream to run a gallery?”

She laughs then, so bitter it makes my tongue shrivel in my mouth.

“No. No, it wasn’t. I wanted to be a photographer, actually.”

“Why then? You don’t seem like someone who compromises on what you want very often.”

“There’s that old joke. If you’re not good enough to do, become a critic,” Victoria says, “Of course, I don’t really care about whether or not I’m good enough to ‘make it,’ it’s about the art not the money, blah blah blah.”

“Then why not go for it?”

“Because sometimes it might be a choice, but it's a choice someone else makes for you.”

I pause, “Like what happened to Kate?”

“Yeah. Like what happened to Kate,” Victoria pours herself another, and I force mine down so she can refill my glass as well, “Kate Marsh. Dr. Kate Marsh now. How is she?”

The warmth is growing in my belly, spreading out through my veins until I feel hazy with heat.

“She’s good. Really good. She’s really picked herself up and gotten her life put together, you know? I’m jealous,” I cock my head as if I’m asking out of innocent curiosity, “She said you owed her a few favors.”

“Yeah, I guess you could say that. I owe her more than I’d ever be able to repay in three lifetimes.”

“Why?”

She looks at me over her glass, the same look she gave me in the car, though slightly less drunk. A lot less drunk. She hasn’t had enough to dull her scalpel eyes that peel away pretense and gut me with each glance.

“Why yourself?” she asks finally.

“That was the second time I’ve heard someone say you owed her. First time was at Two Whales and then today in therapy,” I shrug, “I’m a curious cat.”

“I don’t think it ever ends well for curious cats. Isn’t that the whole saying?”

“I’ve still got nine lives to spend.”

Victoria snorts, her eyes never leaving mine. I wait. I find I don’t mind waiting, don’t mind the silence between us that hums from the alcohol.

“Fuck it,” she says at last, “I was the reason she tried to commit suicide. She came to a party and, well, I didn’t know it at the time, but she got drugged. Me and some other people took videos of a bunch of guys making out with her and, you know, posted them all over social media.  
“It got really nasty. Her dad called her three times a day, and the rest of her family wanted him to disown her. She got kicked out of her church. I--I didn’t realize. Didn’t think.”

“You were in highschool.”

“Don’t give me those bullshit excuses. I’ve told them to myself so many times, but they’re wrong. There is no excuse, and you don’t have to pretend like there is. It was fucked up. Like I said, I’ll never be able to make it up to her.”

“I’m surprised she went to a party at all. Doesn’t really seem like her scene.”

“Yeah, I think someone invited her,” Victoria looks anywhere but me now, “Maybe Rachel. She was always trying to get weirdos into the club. Shit. No, I don’t mean to say weirdos like that. Different. Whatever the fuck. You know what I’m saying.”

“I do.”

_More than you realize._

I’m hyper aware of the two cool kisses of Chloe’s and my wedding rings against my chest, of the weight of the chain that binds them to me, of all the memories that will never happen now. I guess I’m luckier than Victoria in that way. We both have to live with what we’ve done, but at least my decisions no longer affect the person I love.

_“All those moments between us were real, and they’ll always be ours.”_

Chloe’s curse, though she didn’t know it at the time. Because Victoria’s right. There is no excuse. It doesn’t matter that this Chloe was saved from me and that Chloe wiped from existence without ever having to deal with me. I still what I did, even if it no longer happened. Those moments, those final years spent rewinding and manipulating Chloe into staying with me, those memories are our legacy.

I’ve never told anyone, but I find here sitting here drunk with Victoria fucking Chase, and I want to tell her. I want to tell _someone_. I don’t want to have to carry it alone anymore. 

_Is that selfish? Is that the same kind of thought that made me bind Chloe to me even as she suffered and suffered and suffered._

“Yeah, it’s selfish, and what’s so wrong with that?” Kate’s words come back to me.

_Fuck it. I can always just rewind it all away anyways._

“I do know what you’re saying. Because I did something similar. But I did it to the woman I loved,” I say, and the words are outside of me for the first time, given a shape other than the monsters lurking in the shadows of my mind, “I manipulated her into staying with me, even though I knew it wasn’t good for her. That I wasn’t good for her. She ended up blowing her head off with a shotgun in our backyard. Because of me.”

Victoria’s green eyes hold my own, and for a second, I feel known. Understood. It’s a rush like the first time Chloe convinced me to try a cigarette and my head spun so much I thought I would pass out.

“I loved Kate,” Victoria says, eyes still holding mine with such intensity that everything else fades away in the background, “I was the one who invited her to the party. I really didn’t know she was drugged, but I got jealous. That’s why I did it.”

She stands up and walks over to me. Victoria Chase sits on the edge of her desk and wipes the tears from my eyes.

“I’ve never told anyone that,” I say, “I didn’t think I’d ever found someone who’d understand.”

“I understand,” Victoria says.

Without the barrier between us, the air is dangerous, sparking with electricity and full of hidden traps. Victoria must feel it too because she stands awkwardly, teetering on her heels, and scurrys back behind her desk.

“Listen, Rachel--she’s a friend of mine from Blackwell--Rachel and I are planning on having a little reunion at school. Show off what we’ve all been up to, and since I’ve done nothing of my own, I’m gonna have to try and pimp out some of the artists I’ve got on display here. It’d be this weekend, and it’s totally cool if you’re not interested, but--”

“I’d love to come.”

“Awesome,” Victoria smiles, “Uh, but I was also asking if I could maybe show off your photos too.”

“Oh,” I can feel my ears turning red, “Yeah, I mean that’s fine.”

“See you this weekend then?” Victoria holds out a hand.

“Yeah. Yeah, see you this weekend,” I say, clasping my hand to hers for a second before turning and almost running out of the gallery.

* * * * *

“You’re late,” Prescott says.

He is standing before the Artifact again, one hand under the covering, every muscle in his arm twisted to the breaking point. His pupils fill his entire eye save for a small ring of blue that remains. The not-sounds coming from under the cloth make my body ache like I've been worked over with a baseball bat.

“Any progress?” I ask.

“Some,” Prescott says, “Precious little. I think you managed to cut off a finger, but it might be a toe. When I hold it, I can feel its owner reaching out for it, and it is reaching out for them too. Almost like a child instead of a severed appendage.”

I don’t need to hold anything to feel the breath on the back of my neck or see the wavering at the edges of the mirrors, but Prescott does not seek to understand. Never does he seek to understand, even when his only son’s mind withers at his touch or the dead gods which have seen a million rebirths of the universe make our reality shudder without effort. He moves forward, only forward, and so why would he need the advice of failures? If they could not see the way in their own time, what use are they?

 **ANA HARRANI SA ALAKTASA LA TARAT,** the old ones say of him, those who seek to thwart fate hasten to complete her ends themselves.

Prescott pulls his hand away from the artifact and holds it twitching before his face, turning it to examine all sides. Satisfied, he lets it fall to his side and rolls his shoulders.

“Maxine Caulfield. Long have I waited--”

“Jesus, I'm _so_ sorry, I didn’t realize I was that late.”

“You’ve been drinking with someone, someone special.”

“Drinking, yes. Someone special, no. What’s the point of of all your power if you’re only right fifty percent of the time?”

“You are lying to me and to yourself. I can see your elevated dopamine levels, feel the alcohol and adrenaline coursing through your veins. I am not wrong,” Sean smiles, “Don’t mistake me, I am not concerned with you being late. Time is of little value when you can control it on a whim. I am glad you are finding happiness in this world. We have a long and arduous path ahead without the added burden of the misery you’ve been carrying for the past few decades.”

“She wasn’t anyone special.”

“As you say,” Sean shruggs, “But as _I_ was saying, I have waited a long, long time for someone like you, Maxine. More than you can possibly fathom. You and I, matter and time, we control the two final shackles of the human race, and together we can help our people avoid the Great Filter which we have tried and failed to overcome since time immemorial.  
“I have trained you, pushed your limits, even sent you to the watery graves of the dead gods themselves to bring me an Artifact. You have passed each test and overcome each obstacle with ease. But tonight, tonight will be your final test. You have stolen from a dead god. Tonight you will kill a living god.”

“Who?”

“An old friend of mine who lost his way, as you know our kind is prone to do. However, where as your powers allowed you to split the timeline indefinitely until our reality would have collapsed under their weight, his powers are not as threatening to our world. That does not mean he is not a threat or should not be taken seriously.”

“Who is he, Prescott?”

Sean Prescott holds up his still twitching hand, "We have something to discuss, you and I."

The world falls away, leaving us in an empty plane with no directions save time. A version of him steps outside of himself, another copy out of those two, and another out of each of those until he surrounds me on all sides.

“My friend is someone who relishes in his own nature,” the empty corner of the world he’s created for us reverberates with the hundreds of voices, “Old as this universe itself, but not as old as I, who was born from the convalescence of that failure which was the grandfather of our current timeline. Three times I slipped through Armageddon, the only survivor, and each time, do you know what it was which brought along our failure? Do you know what it is that serves at the Great Filter that had us caught in this endless cycle like a rat caught by the tail? It is our nature. Mutually assured destruction. Nuclear weapons. Man made plagues. Economic warfare. The version of the flaming sword is irrelevant. For our end is forged in the heart of our creation, inseparable from the nature of ourselves.”

One of the Seans steps toward me, obliterating my body without so much as a blink, watching through the rewind as I am forced to rebuild. Again, he tries, but I hold myself together, always anchored in the past before he could act, even as he moves to destroy me. 

“Clever,” a thousand and one say, “But you’ll have to do better than a stalemate.”

Every molecule of air around my projection turns to lead, entombing me until I suffocate and have to hard reset back to the beginning, this time pinning each facade of Prescott in time, slowing them while at the same time speeding up time around me, so that in the few milliseconds it takes for him to focus his power on me, I am gone.

“Relativity and meaning. A lesson I taught you? Or is this a tactic you’ve pulled from your meetings with Kate Marsh?”

I lose control for a faction of a second, but it is enough for him to transmute my blood into fire, burning backwards through time back to the start.

“Did you really think you could hide anything from me, Max Caulfield?”

I move too late and he fills my lungs with water.

“When you came to me begging for a truce, a chance to give Chloe a good life, I gave you everything you wanted. All I asked in return was your loyalty. Maxine Caulfield, do you think I was born yesterday? Do you think I survived three heat deaths with a cheap parlor trick?”

I try to age his bodies to dust, but each time I destroy a copy of him, three more appear.

“In that moment when the world collapsed in on itself, I became the singularity. I am every molecule of air you breathe. I am the spark between your neurons as Victoria Chase leans in to dry your eyes. I am the broken ground which swallowed Chloe Price’s love for you whole.”

My skin is pulled taut against my body until it starts to tear at the seams. My scream dies in the vacuum Prescott creates around me, pulling me inside out.

“I am the fabric of creation itself, and no matter what timeline you create, no matter how far backwards or forwards you go, there is no where you can escape from me.”

My skin splits from from each temple down to my ankles, my true form crackling against the open air like a log consumed by flame, and Prescott is there, his hand closing around my throat, binding every molecule in my twisted form to him and cutting off any means of escape.

“I could kill you right now. I want you to remember that in all your plots and schemes. I could end them all right here. But I won’t. Because together, we can be so much more. We are among the greatest of our kind, Maxine Caulfield, but even we must shed our nature if we are to shepherd humanity towards the stars.”

He lets go, letting the ugly creature I’ve become to skitter back into its warm host, and the blank training grounds fade into a city block. 

We are on the rooftop opposite a club blaring music so loud my teeth rattle in my skull. One way windows reflect fun-house versions of ourselves, twisting the facade that is my physical body in ways that mock the terror lurking within.

“Your target’s name is Mason Lloyd,” Prescott says as if nothing happened, “Like all of our kind, you cannot harm him until he reveals his true shape, but once he does, you must kill him without shedding his blood. Bring his unbroken body to me, Maxine Caulfield, and remember, I am everything, everywhere. Do not disappoint me.”

The darkness presses in again, but only for a moment, and then I am standing in line, a neon sign chasing shadows to their dens and coating every surface in slick hues of pink and green and purple. Las Deux, the letters flash one after each other.

I halt time and slip past the two bouncers. The same psychedelic colors are frozen mid-dance across the interior. Patrons’ faces are stuck in all the fake expressions used to lure and entice and preserve. 

“Mason,” I call out in the standstill, sweeping through the reverberations of music frozen midair like ocean tides, “ Your old friend, Sean Prescott, sent me.”

Welcome to **ALKA EGISNUGAL** , a voice that could only come from a dead tongue speaks, **WUSSURU ASBU MELAMMU DUMU SAL**. Be at peace for your end is near, young surrogate of **KISHAR.**

I move into the empty dance floor, slowly revolving around, sweat collecting on the small of my back. Prescott is watching, and I can feel his gaze from the dust hanging suspended in the rays of light from the dance floor lights, from the blind eyes of those held captive in my standstill, from within my own skin.

“English would be great, asshole.”

 **ADI LA BASI ALAKU.** Has Prescott not taught you his mother tongue?

“Come on, man. If you’re gonna kill me, let’s just fucking get this over with already.”

As you desire. **MINA ZU KARMU.**

A man steps out of the crowd, smiling with sharp teeth, a black blade in his left hand and a deep gash in his right, his blood curing up around his arm and drifting into the air in lazy spirals.

“Welcome to my home,” Mason’s voice is high and reedy without the blood fueling it, “It seems you already know who I am, but I don’t know who you are.”

I gesture at his injured hand, “I’m not sure if I should tell you that, blood sorcerer.”

“Ah, so Prescott has taught you something of our history after all. Good.”

“He’s sent me to kill you,” I say, “He’s watching us now.”

“Oh, he’s always watching, isn’t he? A little bit of a nasty one, that man, but I guess it comes with age. As all life’s joys become old habits, what else is there to do but twist and pervert?” he takes a step towards me, “Well, we might as well put on a good show for him then.”

In one smooth motion, he lunges forward and, at the same time, slices his body open from hip to shoulder, bathing us both in his blood. I start to rewind time, but he forces through far enough to grab my wrist, pulling me into him, pushing my head into his gushing wound. He seizes me around the waist and pushes me through the curtain of his internal organs and out onto a beach of black sand, dead trees, and dark waters. A second later, he turns himself inside out through the portal he opened with his own body.

“ **LA MAGIRI BEL ADE U MAMIT,** ” his smile reveals rows of sharp teeth that line his mouth and throat, “Now we can speak honestly, blood sister. **AHATU ASSINU.** ”

“You knew?”

“Those who are learned will recognize the signs of one who has traveled to seek the wisdom of the gods. **KIMA PARSI LABIRUTI.** Prescott does not know?”

“He does not. I have a good teacher. **NAGA ABUM APSU USMI SHU MUDUTU.** ”

“This is good. **DAMIQ**. You will need every trick you can learn to survive Prescott’s interest in you. **AKSU NERGAL.** ”

“What can you teach me?”

“I can teach you what it is to kill a god. **DAKU APSU** ,” Mason looks out to the burnt out sun, “I know you now. **NURU ANUNITU**. The gods whisper of you and your fate. You are Max Caulfield. **MI SA KALU ISKAKKU**. It will be an honor to die by your hand.”

He turns to me, tossing his knife into the air and catching it by the blade to proffer its handle to proffer it to me. I back away.

“It will be a blessing,” he pleads, “To rest at last. **LARAAK ANUNNAKI.** Strike me asunder and use my blood to return to the sleeping world.”

The hilt is warm and sticky with his blood.

“I will not make it easy, for your sake. When we forsake our humanity and transmute into the godhead, we are at our most vulnerable. And our most dangerous,” he sets his jaw and lets go of the blade, “Go. Do it now.”

_“Do it now,” Chloe’s voice, “Do it before I freak.”_

I bring my hand down as hard as I can, mirroring the cut he made himself to bring us here. I push through Mason and into his neon nightclub. His mortal body falls to the ground behind me. For a moment, everything is still. Then the squelching begins. 

I spin to body just in time to see two slimy hands covered in fur like a stillborn calf reach out after me through the ruin of his chest. Long talons sink into the dance floor as Mason’s form drags its way out of his body. Drooling mouths lined with teeth hiss from between the rolls of fat. Open sores sizzle and fill the air with the stench of putrefied flesh. 

Mason charges at me, half roaring and half spitting, and I barely jump aside in time before he shreds his way in a blind rage through the crowd, his many mouths gnawing hungrily at those helpless dancers who topple against him in the standstill. He turns again. A long tongue lolls out of the great gash where his face should be and cuts itself to shreds on his teeth.

Breathing in all the blood--his, mine, all those around us--I push his mind back, back to the moment his divinity awoke, to being whipped under the hot sun three thousand years ago. I hold him in that moment of weakness while I knock him to the ground and wrap both my hands around his neck.

Mason’s form jerks beneath me, caught between trying to duck away from the whip in his past and wriggle free of my hands. His legs thrash uselessly against the floor. One by one his many mouths fall silent until, in a last effort, one of his claw like hands reaches up and digs into my face, dragging until one talon sinks into my left eye and another takes a chunk out of my nose.

 **NADANU IGISUM AMELATU,** he shrieks with his dying breath and the power of my blood, **PULHU ELI AMELNAKRU.**

_I stay with Chloe in the hospital every Sunday during family visitation until they kick me out. She always sits with her knees pulled up to her chest. The table in front of us is scattered with crayons, nothing hard or sharp enough to do any damage._

_"You should have let me die back in Arcadia," she says quietly so the nurses won't hear, "You should have listened to me."_

_"It would have been me killing you even if Nathan pulled the trigger."_

_"Then you should have fucking killed me. I don't care if you **did** have to pull the trigger yourself. My life isn't worth all this. Mom. All our friends from Blackwell. Frank. All the people we never even met. And that's just Arcadia Bay."_

_"Well, I couldn't, ok. I can't. I can't do it, Chloe."_

_**"No, Max. You're the only one who can."** _


	10. Worth It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chloe has employee orientation at Prescott Laboratories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two updates in one day! I'm back on track, baby.
> 
> Bonus points to anyone who deciphers the ending madness. ;)
> 
> I'm hoping to have another chapter published either Saturday or Sunday, and from there I'll try to update daily until Christmas.
> 
> See you all soon!

"Throw me in a landfill  
Don't think about the consequences  
Throw me in the dirt pit  
Don't think about the choices that you make  
Throw me in the water  
Don't think about the splash I will create  
Leave me at the altar  
Knowing all the things you just escaped"  
~ Daughter "Landfill"

## Chapter Ten: Chloe

It’s three in the morning, and I have six hours until I’m supposed to show up for my new employee orientation, but I can’t sleep any more. I count out my meds. 50 mg sertraline. 40 mg propranolol. I sit in the dark bathroom counting my heartbeat, willing my breath to slow. 

My phone buzzes in my hands, lighting up the bathroom and making my exhausted eyes burn.

> Rachel:  
>  You’re gonna kill it today, Chloe! <3

Her contact photo hasn’t changed since high school when we went to that random ass mall in Portland to see _The Dark Knight_ and spend thirty minutes in a photo booth. I had a whole roll of photos, but after she left for L.A., I threw them out or tore them up or something. I don’t remember a lot about those first few months, and I wish I could forget some of the stuff that came after before I pulled my life together. Now all I have is her profile picture, the one of her holding me to her while she smirks at the camera.

> Chloe:  
>  Thanks, Rach.  
>  You gonna stay around Arcadia Bay for the holidays?
> 
> Rachel:  
>  Yeah, I thought I would. Kinda over L.A. at the moment.  
>  . . .  
>  Would you want to grab a drink or food or something after work?  
>  I want to hear everything!

The trouble is, when I think of Rachel, when I see her, I remember those nights sleeping under the stars in the bed of my trunk, getting high before we got our first tattoos together, and that night after The Tempest. I remember the way my heart would go into free fall when she winked at me, the way the clothes she gave me always smelled like lavender, and the way her skin felt on mine when we melded into one.All the good moments wash over me, melting me, pulling at me like the tide along the beach.

Then I remember the note she left me saying she’d been sleeping with Frank for six months right under my nose. I remember the screaming, the fighting, the crying. I remember all those things which became my worst nightmares. All the bad times sucker punch me, leave me feeling hollow and gasping for breath.

> Chloe:  
>  I’ve already got a dinner date with my mom  
>  Sorry
> 
> Rachel:  
>  . . .  
>  Ok! Some other time then.  
>  btw are you gonna come to the reunion tomorrow?  
>  No pressure but  
>  I think it's gonna be fun :) 

My fingers hover over my phone as my stomach whips around like a yo-yo.

_God damn you, Rachel Amber._

> Chloe:  
>  Yeah. Alright.  
>  I’ll come.
> 
> Rachel:  
>  YAY! :D  
>  Ok then we’ll catch up then  
>  You’ll have to tell me all the top secret government projects you’re gonna work on
> 
> Chloe:  
>  OH SHIT  
>  I didn’t tell you?  
>  Aliens built the pyramids to try to mind control us  
>  but it didn’t work  
>  so now they’re trying to poison us all through vaccinations  
>  and the government is complicit because its run by lizard people
> 
> Rachel:  
>  I knew it
> 
> Chloe:  
>  Typical leo
> 
> Rachel:  
>  Not even close, Price 

I let my phone slip out of my hands, turn on the shower, and sit under the scalding water.

_You dumb mother fucker, I think, You stupid, stupid idiot._

After everything, I still want her so bad it makes my chest ache.

_Damn the God who made you, Rachel Amber._

* * * * *

“Welcome to Prescott Laboratories,” the five front desk clerks say in unison as the automatic doors swoosh shut behind me, “Are you here for employee orientation?”

What little light the strips of luminescent paneling on the floor and ceiling provide is devoured by the dark stone and slate grey walls. Running along the mid line of the entryway is a long trough of water broken by the occasional fountain. Sweeping abstract paintings of purples and blues and yellows line the walls.

“I am. Chloe--c, h, l, o, e--Price.”

“Oh, Ms. Price. You’re early,” one of the attendants says, furiously tapping at her tablet, “Mr. Prescott wanted to handle your tour personally. He’s in a meeting right now, but he left instructions to take you up to his office to wait for him. Please, follow me.”

She leads the way to one of the five central elevators. I’ve been here once as a kid, after dad’s funeral, but the tower was still under construction then, and only ten stories were planned, not the fifty it became a few years later, not counting how many subterranean bunkers and top secret testing grounds existed off the books. But it seems Sean’s taste in decor never grew alongside his other ambitions.

His office, located on the top floor, is just as drab. Heavily tinted windows dull the noonday sun to little more than a night light, and everywhere the are rough hewn sculptures of concrete and rebar. A huge desk dominates the otherwise desolate space, and his chair is the only one in sight.

“Wait here. Mr. Prescott will be with you shortly,” the woman gestures for me to get off the elevator alone, and after a moment’s hesitation, I force myself to follow her lead.  
The room is quiet enough for the pitter-patter of my heart to make the primal part of me turns into the footsteps of some assassin creeping up on me.

_Should have gone with the higher dose of propranolol._

I walk up to one of the statues, a woman with her dress pulled back in a nonexistent wind so as to reveal the shape of her body underneath. Two twisted ravens perch either shoulder, whispering into her ears. Beaten steel flowers look dead even at full bloom around her feet. 

“My late wife,” Sean’s voice comes from behind me, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

His smile dies before it reaches his eyes as he looks up to the statue.

“She died soon after Nathan was born. Esophageal cancer. She was trying to lose weight at the time, so we were happy when she started dropping pounds. Didn’t realize something was wrong until it was too late. Burned through her in less than a year.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you,” Prescott rests a heavy hand on my shoulder, “I think to think they’re up there somewhere, my wife and your father, cheering us on as we accomplish everything they wished for us.”

He walks behind his desk, unbuttoning his suit before sitting down. 

“Forgive the lack of chair for you. I have so many people who demand my attention over the most trivial shit,” he snorts, “I find the lack of comfort shaves at least a little time off of those meetings.”

“It’s no problem.”

“Well, I suppose I should welcome you aboard. Congratulations, officially,” he pauses, “But you know, you caused me quite the dilemma.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Where to put you. What project to assign you too. I assume you’ll want to go back to grad school eventually, so we want it to be something that’ll look good on a resume. And then, last night, it struck me. So obvious. I have a special project that it seems you already know something about.”

“Oh?”

Something is wrong. It is as if I’m seeing Sean Prescott for the first time, and I’ve realized that the whole time, he’s been wearing colored contact lenses.

_Max works with him, though, and she said she came back for me._

“Yes. Yes. And I thought I would show it to you. It’s a bit of a personal endeavor I’ve been working on myself, when I can find the time,” he rocks up from his seat, pacing, “Top secret. All that. So once I show you, I’m afraid there’s no going back. Not to ambush you on your first day, but I think this will be the perfect opportunity for you to grow. What do you think?”

“Uh, if you feel like it’s a good fit, I trust you, Mr. Prescott.”

“You trust me. Good,” he smiles, launching off from the balls of his feet straight towards one of his office’s walls, “Good. Then let’s take a ride down to the bottom floor then, shall we? We’ll use this elevator here.”

Sean waves his badge over what looks like an unadorned concrete wall, but a small chime goes off, and the wall splits open. We gestures for me to enter first and follows after, standing between me and the elevator doors. Automatically, the floor rumbles, and we must be moving down, though I can’t be sure. Prescott won’t look away from me.

_It’s something about his eyes. They are so dilated, there’s almost no iris at all._

“I know Maxine and Rachel have revealed themselves to you,” he says, “I know you know what they are.”

“What are they?” I echo Max’s question from the lighthouse.

“They are goddesses among mortals. Wolves among sheep. Beings of such immense power, to say you are insignificant would be beyond redundant.”

“Are you… like them?”

“They are not like me, I’m afraid,” Sean says, “They are immature, and they play with mortals like you without understanding how devastating they can be. They are blind to everything except their own machinations. Ignorant--blissfully ignorant--of the pain they will cause those who get caught up in their schemes. But I, I know the pain I can cause.”

“You know, I’m really starting to rethink this whole assignm--”

“You don’t understand. There is no choice. Every choice you think you’ve made, they are nothing but an illusion as Maxine and Rachel manipulate you like a doll to satisfy themselves. You know Maxine, she tried everything to give you the life she thought your deserved, split time until it almost shattered to try to get it right, but in the end, she had to come to me. It is I who gave you this life, not Max. Me who funded your dreams and softened life’s blows.  
“They told you their powers, but even in the moment, you saw the questions. Maxine Caulfield, who can control time and in another life bound you in a cycle worse than death to keep you as her pet. You asked her, you asked her at the lighthouse how many times she had rewound to have such perfect answers, but you never wondered why her dismissal of that question was so perfect as well?  
“And Rachel. Rachel Amber. Have you ever thought why everyone loved her when all she did was bring destruction and ruin on her friends, her lover? She turned sand to gold before your eyes. How difficult do you think it would be for her to flood your brain and the brains of so many others with dopamine, oxytocin. She transformed her presence into a drug so addicting, it turned everyone around her to putty for her to mold whatever she wanted.”

My blood freezes in my veins. _No. No, there’s no way._

“Why are you telling me all this?”

“Because I have lived a lot longer than either of them. I have seen the destruction our kind can cause. I want to save you from the fate so many others have succumbed to.”

“Rachel is my best friend.”

“Is she? Do best friends cheat and lie and tell you that you were a mistake, that you ruined their life, that they don’t want you? After what? What did you do. She cheated on you, not the other way around.”

The elevator doors open, revealing a room covered with mirrors. The floor, the ceiling, the walls, they all reflect back into each other so that up is down and right is left and my head spins, so I focus on the only other feature in the room, a raised dais with a cloth covered alter on it.

Prescott steps out into the room, “Do not be afraid. I’ve brought you here to set you free from their snares. I want to give you powers of your own, Chloe. People like Maxine and Rachel, they don’t deserve their powers. What have they done to earn them? Have they suffered like you have. Chloe, I can make all the pain mean something. I just need you to trust me.”

His eyes flick between mine so fast they seem to vibrate in his skull. I take one step, then another out into the room. 

_What am I doing?_ I think dimly, following Prescott to the altar, _Rachel?_

“Do not look away, Chloe,” he grips the edges of the cloth, “Do not look away.”

Sean tears the cover away, revealing--

t̵̨̡̤͕̼̟̲̼͋̄̽̽̿̏̓i̸̲̭̻̔ ̸͔̽̆n̶̲̺̲̙͖̱͕̯̝̘̖͌̽̉̅̂̓͜a̷̞̜̖̓̃̏̈́̐̑͝͠y̵̗͊̀̋͊̊̕͠͝͠͝k̴̫̲̯̩̒̎͒̈́̿̕͠ͅͅa̷͚̖̟̮͇͙̙̜͆̔̄̓̎̆̔̈́k̷͈͆̈́̆̋͗͗̍̋̂̏ŝ̶̨͚̯̳̳̩͇̜̜̠̈͋̽i̷̬̻̯̪̦̦̖̹͍̤̞͚̗̒̃͐̑̔̉̿̔̌͐̈͜k̶̡̟̤̼̘͚̥̦̂͊́̽̄͐ȁ̸̛͓͉͇̔͂̉̈́̈́̈́͋̕l̷̛̬͚̬̤̭͈̙͊͆͆̎͛͂̀͜͜͜ä̷̠̺̫͓́̂͒͋͜͝ͅt̴̫̥̜͉͍̜͍͆͝͠͝į̶̛͍̼͉̪̠̹̊̓̈́̍͛̇͛̈͊̈̆̚͜͠ư̵͙͈͇̥̒̉̋͋͂̌̽͠a̸̻̫̹̥̳͇̪̼̎̓̆̈́̒̿͝p̶̡̢̬̗̹͖̥͈͔̫̤̘̯̲̾̌̋̏̅̎͐̋͌̃̏͜͝ã̶̼̫̦̃͂̈́̋̓̚͝͝ ̶̨͍͇̱̦͔̆͆̚n̷̡̯̗̝̳͍͓̩͔̖̳̦͓̠̓͛̾q̷̨̻̙̥̮͚̩͕̖̰̰̎̔̄͛͝b̷̛̹͓͗͆̈́͗̍̾͂̆̃ͅm̵̛̬̏͂̓̿̎̏̃̍b̴̹̩͕̜͈̄̌̐t̸̯̒̈́̈́̈́̓̇̒̏̉̔̔͂̎͝r̷͚͎̠̿͗t̶̨̢̛͐̋̂̇͂͛̄̆̚͝ ̸̛͙̮͔̥̗͙̮͕̻̝͌̈́͋̾͆̈́̊̋̏͜a̷̱̣̙͎̱͑͛̽̈́a̷̢̡̦̦̤͂̌͊̉͊̽̏̕͝ ̴̧͖̱̯̯͙̺̳̩͍̘̬̹͕͍̈́ú̶͓͈̞̣̬̭̈́̓̋̄̌͆̋̈́̑̎͋̕͝͠m̷̤͎̥̅̒̇͂̉͛̉̅̾̾i̵͈̥̮̱̝͉̰͙̹͖͔͋̆̄̾̅̍̐͜͠ ̴̹͎̣̯͎͚͓̠̣̹̗͍͙̎̊̇̋̋̎͐̆̀͂̓͑̕̕ͅē̷̖̫̦͉͈̞͔̻̙͈̝̩̩̯̄͛̇̇͋͐̾̐̒̎̏̚ ̶̧̡̝̤̟̖̐̇͛͛̓́̓͠ǐ̷̛̥̈́̽̌̑́̊͊̐͛̔͠a̶̡̘͎̩͉̫̝͛̽̚̕̚s̵̻̙̼͊̃̅̋̓̌̋̅̄̈̕̚i̸̧̠͍̦̯͉̼͔̝͙͙͈̘̍̉̊́̏͝ţ̷̰̪̺̫͗̂̄͝͝ǎ̵̧̬̥͓̭̭̮̏̑͊̇͛ȗ̶͍̫̆̐͗́͑̿͝e̸̢̘̋̀̓̚a̵̫͔̪̟̠̫̯͔͔͊ ̴͔̰̗̰̽̒̒̅̉̅̔̽̉̕͠͠b̶̢̡͖̝͓̗͙́͒͋̓͝͠ͅt̴̡̳̬̪͎̲̆͐̽͊̊̒͜

c̸̨̡̛̣̞̣̱̣͉̠͍̻͙͙̮̓̿̍̄̑e̴̠͚͐̍͑̏̎̍̀̂̚͘͝ ̶̻̰͍͊̊͊̒̓̍̀̄̃̉̂́̏̈̕r̸̜̞͎̻̔͆͗͒p̷̢̢͖̖̹͉̤̬̠̲͚̼̺͑̔̈́̊̌̑̐̆̍̓̌͘͠͝h̷̳̲͍̪̗̮͇̤͔̭̰͎̀̇̿̈́͌̐͗̉̓͋̇̒̚͜͝!̴̨̨̡̛̟͕̹̟̎̄̅͗̊͆̑̄͘͠͝ͅḣ̵̨̲̣̭̮͖̳͍͙̹̫̝̝͓̈́̄̄̓̔̇̒l̶̨̟̹̲͙̣͇̫͓̣̮̐̃̈̈͊̈́͘a̴̛̛͉̰͕̤̱͓̠̼̼̮͑̏͌͗͑͒̕͜͝͝ļ̴̤͎͖̺̺̼̱͉͉̄̽̽̑͑͜͜?̷̛͔̔͂͐ ̴̧̧̠̬͔̣̗͙̪͙̒̉̋͋̕ȇ̵̛̠̾̏̒̔̔̊͘ͅm̶̢̨̛̖̣͓͚͕̗̔̑͋̾͐͝͝e̵̡̮̱͈̫͉̭̗͙̱̓̋̇̀͐͛͊̈́̂̕͜͜

'̸̘̺̺̥̗̫̩͚̗̫̠͊̏̏̕ ̵̢͍̤̗̠̮̽͊ͅà̴̡͎̱͔͎̰̒͋̓̚d̴̨̨͉͚͕͗̓ ̴̛̗̪̭̮͉̼̻͑̈́̋͑̉̋ͅȅ̸̛̺̪̙͎̘̼̮̜̟̄͂̽͝l̸̦̖̩͚̳̞͔̟͌̄͂̓͊̒̌̀͜͝͝ͅͅn̴̞̍̃̔̑̀̆̽̄͗̋͗͐̃̚,̴͈̽̈́́͛̿̈͊͛̌͠͝͠͝͝ơ̷͖͕̆͒̉t̵̟̙̠̻̱̯̱̭̠̯̜͓͚̋̉͊̂́͐͗̇̊͐͆̒͝ę̶̳̫̳̲͉̤̻͈͖̬͗͊̈́̏̎̈̌̚l̸͙͈̹̝̺̉̄̈́͒̊̑̍̆̽̍͋̅͝͝c̶̳͉͍̪͎̽̂͌̃̍̂̏̊̄͂̎̋̑͜e̸̤͐̈́ṁ̴̠͓̭̙͇̠̖̬̬̣̿̚ͅṽ̷̨̧̧̲̙̤͖̩̺̮̞̬̼͓̝͋̑ẖ̷̭̰͈̿̎̓̏̋̄͠è̴̼̳̦̜̩̱͕͍͉͔̦̳̊͒́̚ ̵̡̡̤̹̻̩͖̥̟̯̦͚̋͒͑͒̈́̐̿͆̏̍̃̇̚͝͝r̷̫͙̝̻̹͓̎́̑̚͝a̷͍̣͓̣͙̦̙̋͊̈̐̌͆͑̈́̕ͅ

l̵̰̖̎̔̏͒͑ė̶̡̛̱̺̞̜͙͕̩͔̗̣͑̕̕͘o̸̢̻̪̯̩͎͇̥͓̾̈ ̷̢̜̞͓̳̭̭̬͖̬̳͈̋̽͗̈́̅̚͜͝i̶̬͚̣̪̳͙͔̣̬͖̙͆͊̿ͅy̵͈͍̜̐͛͒͑̓̿̀̓̍̿͆͘͠o̶̡͚̗̪̩̱̙̘̓̐̃̈́̎͝ͅͅ ̵̡͓̹̦͉̻̪̻̄̄̍̂̀̏̂͂̑̔̌̾̀͘͘ͅư̷̛̞͇̟̹̱̱̻̱͚̄͂̈́̏̈́͂̎̔͐͝ͅv̷̛͍̺̠̹̲̦̪͂̎͋́̆͛̆


	11. To Hell and Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sean resumes Rachel's training. Max and Rachel take a trip to the underworld.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another late/long chapter! Hoping to get the next one up by the end of the night, another two shorter ones tomorrow, and the Christmas Special on Christmas morning.
> 
> I love you all! Must get back to writing/editing.

"Do you realize that you have the most beautiful face  
Do you realize we're floating in space  
Do you realize that happiness makes you cry  
Do you realize that everyone you know someday will die  
Do you realize that everyone you know someday will die"  
~ Ursine Vulpine "Do You Realize?"

## Chapter Eleven: Rachel

_I push my way past Frank and slam through the door to his RV, Pompidou coming to lick at my ankles, always grateful to see us again after Frank puts him outside so we can fuck. We drove to the beach this time. Waves of alcohol wash up on the shore. The surface of the ocean burns blue against a starless sky._

_I turn to face Frank, ready for whatever he’s going to yell at me, but he’s not there. Instead, there’s a man I’ve never seen before but somehow recognize all the same. He has black hair swept in a calculated attempt at messy, black rimmed glasses framing dead eyes, and smiling at me as if I’m a long lost best friend._

_“Oh, Rachel. You always were my favorite,” the darkness from inside the RV sticks to his frame as he steps into the night and gestures to the burning sea, “So imaginative. So tragic.”_

_“Who are you?”_

_“Have you forgotten me already, Rachel? After all the time we spent together?”_

_“Who the fuck are you?”_

_“Mark Jefferson. I’m here to teach another lesson, since it seems out last session didn’t stick.”_

_Pompidou runs at the man, but before he can get close, he disintegrates into sand. A raven lands on the RV. Another perches on the “No Lifeguard: Swim at Your Own Risk” sign._

ã̴̡̻͚͇̙͔̼̤̰͒̋̉͗k̷̭̼̖̪͔͚̮̀̐͌̍̽̈́̚͘̚h̷̩̻̲͚̀̏̂̎͗̕͟w̜̰̣̟̪̝͍͋̌̆́͑̏̕͝ĺ̵̢̢͔̜̥̥͙͕͚̑̔͊̃̑̋͒ȩ̴̲̩̬̣̾̾͆͋̇͛͌͘̚͝e̵̱̣͕̯̯̟̖̻̗̎̆͂́̎̑͘p̶͎͎̦̗̳͖͖̗̉̾͑̍̿̑̓͑̚͟,̲̟̭͎͗̔́̇̊͝ͅ!̷̧̛̗̹̞̟̖̱̲̬̠̏́́̍̑̇̿ ȃ̵̡̡̹̠̞̝͚̣̑̂̆̎̍͒͐͢ç̡̺̹̤̪̝̦̜̽̂̓͌̓͘̚͟͠ ư̡̰̘̝̼̳͖͔͋̐͋̽̔͞r̪̞͎̖͙͆͒̆̑͒͐͠͠

_I am strapped to a gurney. Three people stand over me. The man, Mark Jefferson, holds a cruel looking knife in one hand and a syringe in the other. Sean Prescott stands beside him with his arms crossed. The third is a woman in the rotted remains of a dress, two ravens sit on each shoulder, and every inch of skin that shows is covered in scars._

_“She’s awake,” the woman says._

_“Impossible,” Jefferson says, “She’s completely sedated.”_

_“Her body, yes, but not her mind.”_

_“Then what’s the problem?” Sean asks the woman, “If anything, it’ll just make the ritual more effective.”_

_“She did not wake herself.”_

l̻̥̮̭͍̘͗̂͐͗̾̈́ã̧̢͍͙̰̣̟̲̆̈̉̓̊̅͝͠é̸̛͎͉̩̱͖̞̹͓͐̔̿͢͡s̵̡̛̫͚͎̤̯̈͆̄͛̏̏͢͜͠͝ͅl̳̺̼̘̺̝͔̮̓̓̔̀͋͞ḥ̴̨̩̞͇̲̂̊̓̋̆̾͛c̡̺̙̹̥͍̜̉͆̆̊͠ê̝̥͍͙̗̥͉̰̣̍̄͒͆͐͟p̸̡̢̤̹͍̳͍̼̠̟͗́͋̆͆̓ u̢̢͈̱͓̬̞̒͌́̂̓r̮͇̭̫̼̒̉̇͆͠p̡͚̱̼͖̪͔̙̠̅̾̈́͋̊̕͜͝ .͕̫̠̞͈̟͙͙̼̘̌͋͑̒͛͐̕͡ r̷̰̫̣̯̣͑͒̽͐̅̕a̷̛͉̳̮̭̹̟̭̮̙͒͐̑͆̊̍͒̑,̢̡̟̺͇͓͇̪͎̃͐́̊͘͜͠͞͝ ,̶̗̤̭̖͖̀͛̓̒̓͂͊͜͜a̡̩̦̳̪̍̄̇̆̽̂ȩ̵̛͍̣̙͕̍̃͆̒̔͢ a̧̬̺̯̦͕̹̟͇͂̈́͆͂͝k̻̠̤̰̲͎̗̙̊̋̋̎̓́̕͘͜͠͞ͅẻ̵̟̟̪̹̬̩̖̱͓͎̆͆̃̇̊̆.̵̡̨̥͉͎̘̳̥̻̻̔͑͛̑̾̚͡p̣͔̺͉̹͈̿͊̀̓̕ṷ̶͓̗̺̙̭̑̅͊̚͠͞ḩ̟͕̥̤̺͍̂͂́̐͆͋̋w̷̡̝̖̣̟̖̻̞͒͆͋͐̉̇͡͝c̸͉̲̖͍͎͗̏̈́̐͌̽͡e̶̦̗̖̰͓̾̅́̔̒̃̚͘͠ê͖̭̩̳̫̯̞͔̈́͌͐̃̾̆͡k̷̬͉͔̹͉̩̦͎̙̐̏͊͆́̈͜w̢̢̤̩̭̺̫̠̬̐̒̓̃͋̿̒͆̋̒ą̘̗̰̀͊̄͗̑͞ͅl̩̯̮͕̝̬̏̊̉͞͡͡

_“Hurry,” the woman urges, “We will not hold her for long.”_

y̶̮̯̭͍̞͓̝̿͌͑̈́̆͛̒͢͟ȩ̸̤̬̖̜̬͉̐͐͊̇̈́̉͐̅͘͟ͅe̶̱͎̟̗̤̭͎͐̐͛́̍̀͞ͅŕ̷̲͍͇͉̮̩̘̗͆̂̈̊͜o̷̞̫͉͇̩͆͑͒̐̒̑̏͂ o̴͖͈̥̺̞͐̎̆̇̀̕͡͠m̧̳̠͕̯̋̀͗̍̒̌̂̕ e̸̢̧̛̞̙̤͉̍̎͆̍͂̑̐͟͟b̴̩̭͎͈͈͒̌̏͒̎͆͆̿͝͠ả̶̧̪͍̰̫̯͗͌͑͗ r̵̨͇̭̦͖̀͋̅̄͒̅͒ǘ̢̨̲̤̫̲̠͕̣̳̔́̊́̔̄̿̎̊ė̛͉̤̲͉̳̐̄͑͋̉̉̚ẘ̸̘̜̫̯̤͈̻͉͊̄̉̃͆̓̌͞ŗ̴̰̭̳̳̻̱͚̊̍͗̽̄̈͢͜͞h̺̦̙̯̳̠̯͉͆͂͠͠͝m̷̰̖̥̫̤͓̟̉̋̉̒͂̃̿͢͠

_Power floods through my veins. I melt my steel restrains to steam and rise into the air, wreathed in flame, lightning sparking at my fingertips. Mark Jefferson scrambles back as he catches fire, molten skin crackling, but Sean Prescott and the woman stand unharmed._

_“Is that all Maxine taught you?”_

_He picks up the knife from where Mark dropped it, weighing it in his hand as he approaches. I hold out my hands and send out winds strong enough to shred the wall behind him. Sean doesn’t even stagger._

_“Too predictable. Too simplistic. You’re going to have to learn quickly in the coming days, Rachel Amber, or you will not live to see your potential.”_

_I take a deep breath. Close my eyes._

_“Three times, you will have to die. Only then--”_

_Sean’s head explodes before he can finish his sentence. Shards of skull cut my face. His body falls to the floor, a thick trail of dark smoke trailing from his neck like a snuffed out candle._

_**Better,** Sean Prescott chuckles, **Much better. Take my blood. Taste it and awaken.**_

_His headless corpse stands, advancing until my back is against the wall, shoving the nub of its neck against my face. One of his cold hands clamps around my wrist, and my powers wither inside me._

_My eyes and my throat burn with his blood. It eats at my skin. I cough, struggling to breathe, and all I can hear is the pounding of his dead heart. I try to push him away with my free hand, but he impales it with the knife and pins it to my chest, piercing my heart._

_**Three times you will have to die. This is number two.** _

ȅ̶̢̫͍̬̟̩͕̲̑̋̓̒̊̅͘͠͠ͅņ̻̼̖̺̮̹̿̊̄͡͠m̢̛͉̠̉͂̌̾͂͘͜͝ͅl̩̝̜͚̮̤̩͕̟̯̐̌̂͂̊̎ẗ̷̲͖̼̦̼͉͚͓̹̿̔͛̋̆̓ű̴̧̘͎͚̥͎͉̳̅̓̋̾́ r̞̙͉̫͔̾̆̆̊̃̓͞ͅa̴̢̧̛̗̙̱͕͔̰̗͔̿̑͒̍̐u͕̞̗̬̳͓̩͑̈̎̇̽̊ė̶̡̢̥͍̲̘͆̍̏͒͛̕͡͝g̵͖̟̣̝̹͉͖̼̈́̔̆͊̎̀̃̎̑͟͝m̴̧̡̱̫̬̒̿̓̎͂̕͜͟͝ä͚̪̬͍̥͂̇͗͛͟

“Chloe?”

I sit up in bed at my hotel. Blood snakes out of my hand and chest, straining the ceiling red. I stumble out of bed, running to the bathroom, and wrap a towel around the hole in my hand. It all seems a bit pointless when I look in the mirror and see the gaping wound in my chest.

“Fuck.”

* * * * *

I wake up on my bathroom floor in a half mopped pool of my own blood--normal liquid blood that I haven’t seen since I cut my hand open on a shard of beer bottle well before Max started training me--a wadded up towel under my head. The air reeks so badly I’m sure I’m dead, and it doesn’t help when the half mauled face of Max Caulfield comes into focus above me. A rough set of stitches hold her left cheek together, but not well enough that I don’t catch a glimpse of her teeth as she cocks her head. A chunk of her nose is gone, starting at the bridge and ending with a missing nostril. She has a black patch covering her eye, but from the oozing wound which starts at her temple and shows no sign of stopping at the border of the covering, I don’t want to see the mess underneath.

“You’re alive. Congratulations,” she waves at the blood, “I tried cleaning you up, but I just gave up after a while. You’ve been bleeding like a fountain for the best part of three hours.”

“Your face. What happened? Can’t you heal it?”

“Some wounds stick, as you’ve learned yourself.”

She helps me to my feet so I can look in the mirror. The hole in my hand is gone, though there is still a deep wound on either side that smokes slightly as I turn it. Blood, the same wet, mortal blood that pooled under me, is still trickling soaking through my top at a steady rate.

“You’ll be alright. It’ll just take a bit of time to heal. And it will scar,” Max says, “Maybe you’ll get to switch from modeling for perfume commercials into something a bit more gritty, huh?”

“What are you doing here?” my eyes search her worn appearance, the gun on the counter, and the massive duffel bag in the bathtub, “Hang on. Is that a fucking body?”

“I was coming to find you, obviously, and yes, it is. But we’ll talk about that later. What happened to you? Were you attacked? Prescott?”

I tell her about the not-dream--ending with, “He told me I’d have to die three times, and that this time, the time he stabbed me in the chest, was the second time.”

Max sighs. Her head hangs low. She looks--tired, for the first time I can remember.

“What does he mean, ‘die three times?’ And what was the first time?”

“The first time was in my timeline. My original timeline. That man you saw in your dream, Mark Jefferson, he was the one who killed you. You didn’t have powers then. Prescott told me he was trying to awaken them by putting your body under duress, but it seems that wasn’t the whole truth. I wonder,” Max clenches her jaw, then shakes her head, “You weren’t the only one that was attacked. They got Chloe as well. You say--”

“They **what?** ”

“Chloe was attacked, but she--”

“What happened? Is she ok? Why the fuck are we sitting here?”

“Let me finish a goddamn sentence. She’s going to be fine. We’re going to make sure of that. It’s why I came to get you,” Max sighs, rubbing her non-bleeding temple, “I laid a trap for Prescott. It’s a bit hard to explain. I don’t really know where to begin.  
“Our kind, I told you the older we get the more powerful we get. And the less human we get. At some point--and I have no idea how or when or why--we--or at least some of us--undergo a kind of metamorphosis, shedding our human skin completely and at the same time dying. Kind of. Some aspect of us continues to live, puppeteering the ruins of our body, but the body itself is dead and rotting and meaningless. All of these… things, I call them dead gods, and they all live in the same place, an endless ocean of the blood of millions of them all run together that exists outside of time.  
“Whether it’s by some innate ability or the ancient blood, they are extremely powerful. Exponentially more powerful than you or me or even Prescott. You can commune with them, either through certain rituals or through traveling to their realm, and if they find you worthy, they may teach you or grant you a boon.  
“You might also remember me telling you that blood--even mortal blood--holds power. The dead gods know and can teach the ability to use this power, though the ability to do so is difficult, dangerous, and frowned upon by most of our kind.”

“Why?”

“Philosophy. The prevailing idea on our powers is that they are a gift bestowed upon us by some higher force. Fate, destiny, some unseen God-with-a-capital-G, a super computer called Deep Thought--there are a million opinions as to who, but this view of our abilities as a gift makes it opposing to blood magic, which is a power you take.”

“But isn’t our blood what makes us powerful? Once we get our powers, it changes, right?”

“Does it?” Max raises an eyebrow at the very liquid blood staining my shirt, “That is unclear. If you asked most of our kind, they would tell you that we were gifted with a piece of the very power that formed creation, but the power of blood, rooted as it is to the interior rather than the exterior of the world, is--according to them--a bastardization of the divine. A mortal twisting of divinity. You do not have to be one of us to use blood magic, and they would argue the change of our blood is indicative of the inherent mortal base desire to supplant the divine. They would tell you that these dead gods I talk about are corrupted. That we must fight to retain our humanity and stay pure.  
“But we’re going off the deep end here. What’s really important right now is that Prescott is one of ‘those people,’ but at the same time, he is fascinated by the power, the history, the why of these dead gods. Unwilling to taint himself, he sent me to observe and eventually retrieve a piece of a dead god’s body for him to study. But I did more than observe. I spoke directly to the dead gods. I entreated them. And they answered me. Taught me. Helped me lay a trap for Prescott.  
“You must understand, the most powerful forms of blood magic and the dead gods themselves are not something to be trifled with. Even looking at them with doom us to an eternity of madness and agony. I have met some wanderers in their realm who are endlessly treading water, endlessly drowning, their minds broken and their bodies wracked with pain.  
“This artifact I brought back, the finger of a dead god, my mentor, would entice Prescott to look at it, and when he did, it would imprison his mind in the same plane of existence as the dead gods, at least for a little while.  
“But somehow, Prescott either suspected a trap or was just extraordinarily cautious. He convinced Chloe to look at the finger, and now her mind is imprisoned. What’s surprised all of us--even my mentor--is that Chloe seems to be intact. Trapped as I intended, but a mortal should have had their mind broken beyond repair. My mentor says she is in his plane but above it, somehow, and more than that, she’s tapped into some kind of power that allowed her to communicate with you and even break Jefferson’s hold over you.”

“So, you’ve got a plan to bring her back? Right?”

“I do. But I’m going to need your help.”

“Whatever I need to do to bring Chloe back. I will.”

Max smile is more than a little sad, “I expected nothing less.”

* * * * *

Shafts of moonlight burn in the standstill as they illuminate the hospital parking lot. Two of Prescott’s private security team are frozen at the front entrance, laughing at some joke. Inside, janitors stand at attention on their tiptoes like ballerinas while they dust the tops of bookshelves and statues.

We take the stairs to the top floor, Max showing no exhaustion from lugging the body bag up three flights of stairs even though whoever she had packed in there was just under three heads taller than her.

_Wait a fucking minute…_

“So, uh, Max. You never told me who you’ve got in the bag.”

“You,” she answers as if I’d asked her about the weather outside, but she shoots me a grin after, “It’s your body I dug up from my original timeline. An offering to the dead gods. Luckily for us, they seem to have a taste for remains tragically ruined before their time.”

“Taste?”

“I guess when you’re floating around all day in the most potent blood in existence, some teenager cut down before her time is a welcome change. Like a glass of water after a millennia drinking only 1727 Schloss Vollrads.”

“They’re gonna eat my body?”

“No. Drink your blood. I thought my analogy was pretty clear,” Max laughs, “Oh come on, it’s not like it’s your body anymore anyways. Think of it as your identical long lost twin who died just in time to give your lover a liver transplant.”

“Wha-- I-- Chloe--” I splutter stopping on the landing for the third floor, “We are not lovers.”

“No? Jesus, what did you do? You cheated on her twice in my timeline before abandoning her for the same person who would end up killing you, and she still never stopped pining for you.”

“I only cheated on her once. But I did leave her,” I shake my head, “I was fucking dumb.”

“Yeah. No kidding.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“Hey, at least you owned up to it. You did own up to it right? To Chloe?”

“Yeah, I--I told her everything on Saturday. I mean, she knew about it, but I, like, explained myself, I guess.”

Max whistles, kicking open the stairwell door and unceremoniously banging my corpse’s head against the wall, “Well, it’ll take her some time to process that. Just don’t push her too much. You’ve been honest, you’ve apologized, and now you’ve got to wait for her to decide one way or another. Trying to force the issue will only end poorly. Believe me.”  
“Chloe said you told her you were friends in your timeline.”

“Yeah, we were. Best friends. Grew up together,” Max puts a hand on my shoulder, “You should know, I made mistakes as well. My family moved away just after she lost her dad, and I basically left her too. When I came back to Arcadia after six years to go to Blackwell, I ran into her putting up your missing person posters. I never lived it down, and she definitely made sure I knew how shitty I was for doing what I did, but she did forgive me, in the end. And like I said, she was head over heels in love with you in my timeline, and judging from your and her performance in _The Tempest_ , I think she fell just as hard in this timeline.”

Max smiles, but her eyes are far away, and her hand slips off my shoulder to touch whatever she has attached to the chain around her neck, hidden under her tank top.  
“Do people change between timelines?”

Max’s eyes snap back into focus, and she gives that strange half smile before turning away and heading down the hallway towards Chloe’s room.  
“Sometimes. Or maybe you just pay attention where you didn’t before.”

* * * * *

Joyce is slumped over an armchair beside Chloe’s bed. Max dumps my body just inside the door and looks around, getting that same look my dad used to get when he was looking over paperwork, and just like my dad, I leave her to it to be with Chloe.

She is paper white, and her eyes move under her lids even in the standstill. Both hands are bloodless and gripping to the railings of her bed. A heart monitor is frozen mid jump in pace with her heart.

_Hang in there, Chloe. We’re gonna bring you back, I promise._

“Rachel,” Max says, “This is going to get a little messy, and it’s very important that you keep your eyes closed no matter what. Once I begin transcribing the runes, do not open your eyes, you understand?”

“I do.”

“Good, now shut them.”

I hear the faint sound of her drawing her knife from thin air. Max unzips my body bag, and the smell of desiccated flesh grows stronger. I swallow the bile growing in my throat in my throat. Max starts butchering with sickening snaps of bone and wet slices through flesh.

“ **SHARAKU ANA SEPIYA NA ABUM** ,” Max mutters, her voice swollen like a pustule about to burst, “ **PETA BABKAMA LURUBA ANAKU.** ”

She draws symbols on my face in my own blood, and I can’t stop myself from gagging now. My stomach churns.

“Max?”

“It will all be over soon. Think of Chloe.”

_Chloe and I sit on the bench out beside the lighthouse before school, watching the sunset beyond the horizon, turning the ocean to gold. Chloe is hunched, elbows on her knees, with her head bowed, but it's not because I’ve broken her heart yet. I lean into her. She puts her arm around me._

_“Wanna talk about it?” I ask from her shoulder._

_“Nah,” she says, “Just a bad dream.”_

_I wrap my arms around her waist and wait. Because she always talks eventually. Chloe sighs. She knows it too._

_“I had another dream about my dad. The same one were we on the stage, and he kept talking to me about acting, and lying, and keeping secrets. And then,” Chloe clenches her jaw, struggling to keep the tears back, “And then, out of nowhere, he got run over by a semi. ‘Look at me Chloe,’ he said, ‘It’s going to be ok,’ and then he got fucking smeared across the stage.”_

_I squeeze her, “I’m so sorry, Chloe.”_

_“I feel like he’s trying to tell me--try to warn me about something.”_

_The hair on the back of my skin rises. My skin flushes in shame where Frank kissed me last night._

_“It’s just a dream.”_

_“It doesn’t feel like that,” Chloe shakes her head, “I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like he’s really there. I just wish he wouldn’t talk in fucking riddles.” ___

__“ **ME ALLIK ADI ERSET LA TARI** ,” Max’s voice shakes me, “ **KIMA PARSI LABIRUTI.** Deep breath, Rachel.”_ _

__I have just enough time to take a gulp of air before she draws her knife across my throat._ _

___Chloe, I love you. I love you so damn much. I’m so sorry._ _ _

__I am falling backwards, drowning in my own blood, the darkness behind my eyelids spinning. I gasp, but there is nothing but blood. Blood filling my lungs. Blood swirling in my ears. Blood prying its way through the cracks between my eyes and showing me visions of Chloe falling away from me, her face as white as it is now in the hospital and her eyes wide with surprise._ _

___After all her dad’s warnings, she never even thought to doubt me._ _ _

__I start to wail, but a warm hand covers my mouth. Max wipes the tears from my eyes. She intertwines her hand with mine, and we drift down into the deep together.  
We are not alone. Without my eyes to see them, I feel their presence in the changing currents and the occasional caress of rotting flesh. Their voices whisper in my ear like the cries of dying wales._ _

__**"ARAMMU HALQU"** _ _

__**"ABZU KARMU NURU UL IMMARU"** _ _

__**"ELI BALTUTI IMA”IDU MITUTI"** _ _

__After what seems like an eternity, our feet touch the bottom, and Max squeezes my hand twice._ _

__**"ABUM, APSU,** " Max’s voice calls in the void, "I have come for my friend. NISIQTU SINNIS WARDATU."_ _

__Something shifts around us with the sound of dead flesh being dragged along rough stone._ _

__"Maxine, back again so soon? **ULLANUMMA.** "_ _

__"NERGAL. What do you want?"_ _

__" **EBIH, EBIH, EBIH.** Prescott is clever, daughter. You should have foreseen this."_ _

__"You are right. I am young and foolish. Not like you. **ANPA EMQU.** And now I am at your mercy once again."_ _

__" _Please,_ " I call out, but my voice is weak and wavering compared to theirs, " _We just want to return our friend to our world._ "_ _

__"Rachel, stop," Max warns._ _

__"Fresh blood. **IRNINI ESSUTU.** And what would you give me in return, **AK MI?** "_ _

__"Rach--"_ _

__" _Anything._ "_ _

__"Anything?" the being’s laugh sounds like a widow’s keening, " **APSU LEQU ZU IGI.** Maxine Caulfield, why have you brought this fool to this end of all ends? **KURNUGI.** "_ _

__"She must learn, **LAMADU,** as I did. Forgive her, father. **UTEBBIBASSU MI.** "_ _

__"For you, I will. **ANUNITU.** And I will accept her pact. Anything. I will reflect on this. **TI LEQU.** Do not forget the promises you make in this place, young one, the thing hisses in my ears, Your friend’s spirit is above. She has a protector among the **TITAAN,** the mortal dead. I will take you to him. **USMI.** "_ _

__Hundreds of dead hands--all different kinds from old, wrinkles one sloughing off their bones and young, plump baby arms--grab hold of my clothing, my skin, my hair. The dead god sweeps us off our feel and we soar upwards through the water, faster and faster until we breach the surface. I take a deep breath of air, no longer suffocating with the scent of copper and instead sweet with jasmine and rose._ _

__"Here is where I leave you. **DURANKI.** I will pray that your plan works, Maxine, lest I see you and your friends all too soon. Farwell, **INANNA.** You may open your eyes when I’m gone."_ _

__Max’s mentor releases us, and we fall onto what feels like sand, the water lapping against out heels is pleasant and warm, not like the cold dead depths. I pull myself away from the water. My searching hands find grass covered in dew._ _

__“It’s safe to open your eyes,” Max says._ _

__We are on a beach of silver. Gold grass sweeps away to the horizon before fading into a haze of purple trees in the distance. Above, shooting stars chase each other across the sky in packs that come together and branch away or swirl into huge pools of gentle light, like L.A. from cruising altitude at night._ _

__“Oh my god,” I whisper, “Have you ever been here before?”_ _

__“No. I didn’t know it existed.”_ _

__“It’s beautiful.”_ _

__“You’re stepping into a world of illusion and deception and beings unknowable by either of us. Don’t trust beauty. At least if something is ugly, you know it’s honest.”_ _

__“Then I guess I shouldn’t trust either of you,” comes a voice from behind us._ _

__A man with the same dirty blonde hair as Chloe stands ankle keep in the water with his jeans cuffed to his calves, a rugged pair of brown boots in one hand, and a fishing rod in the other. He has the kindest smile I’ve ever seen in my life, but my stomach is plunging back towards the bottom of the ocean._ _

__“William?” Max asks, not waiting for an answer before sprinting down the beach and leaping into his arms._ _

__“Hey there, Max,” he doesn't hesitate to drop his shoes into the water to wrap both arms around her, “Long time no see.”_ _

__“How?” Max splutters, her face so illuminated that even the horrible wounds don’t make her look a day over ten, “What?”_ _

__“You of all people should no that no one is ever really gone,” William says, “And there is nothing, nothing that could keep me from protecting my girl.”_ _

__“Where is Chloe?” I ask._ _

__Max turns back to me. She’d forgotten I was even here._ _

__“Oh, uh, sorry. Rachel, this is Chloe’s dad. William, this is Rachel Amber.”_ _

__“I know who you are, Rachel,” William smiles, “I was the one who told Chloe she should go after you that night in the junkyard.”_ _

__“You’re not mad at me?”_ _

__“You know, being dead has a remarkable way of revealing the things that really matter,” William laughs, “What matters to me is the happiness I know you can give to Chloe which would outway all the pain you’ve caused her. Which is saying quite a bit, as I know you know. And it’s no guarantee. You’re both going to have to work, to sacrifice, but no partnership is ever without pain, Rachel. You think Joyce and I never struggled? The fact that you are so devastated by what you’ve done and how you’ve tried to undo the damage you’ve caused says more to me than the mistakes you made.”_ _

__“But the dreams?”_ _

__“I’m not going to pretend I didn’t advise Chloe to hit the breaks a little. Whatever the end result, I don’t like her getting hurt,” he shrugs, “I am her dad, after all.”_ _

__All the color is gone from Max’s face. Her smile was bright as the sun when she first saw William, but now she won’t even look at him._ _

__“And I love my daughters,” he says, putting a hand on her shoulder, “All my daughters.”_ _

__Max smiles, but the muscles in her jaw jump, causing the wound in her cheek to bleed, and she still won’t look at him._ _

__“Max Caulfield. No one, no one, has done or tried to do as much for Chloe as you have. Not even me. You are the best friend she could ever hope to have.”_ _

__She nods. Strangles a sob in her throat._ _

__“Max. Love is a funny thing. It inspires the worst and the best in us, but don’t let the hard times keep you from experiencing the good. Don’t let old darkness blot out new light.”  
“I won’t.”_ _

__“Good. Then it’s time for you two to take my daughter home. It’s way past her curfew.”_ _

__In a flash of starlight, Chloe lays fast asleep in her father’s arms. Her head curls into his chest._ _

__“I caught her before she hit the ocean. Had to put her asleep. This place is not fit for the living,” silent tears fall down his face and land on his daugher’s, “Tell her. Tell her that I love her. Tell her that I miss her and that I’m so proud of the woman she’s become.”_ _

__The light around us starts to dim. Sharp scents of disinfectant and meds replace jasmine and rose. Glimmering ocean surf turns to dull tile. William Price’s voice is the last thing to fade._ _

___“Please, tell her. I love her. I love her. I love her.”_ _ _

__* * * * *_ _

__“So let me get this straight,” I ask, unable to keep my voice even, “Prescott has coordinated attacks on all three of us, and your plan is to go to this fucking reunion, where we know he’ll be?”_ _

__“Hate to break it to you Rachel, but if Prescott wanted to kill both of you, he could right now, and there is nothing any of us--me included--could do to stop him.”  
“Great! All the more reason to go flaunt the fact he didn’t manage to finish us off then.”_ _

__“That’s what I’m saying,” Max says, “He didn’t want to kill either of you. So, the question is, why do it? Why attack us? Why not finish the job? Everything Sean does is deliberate. He’s been alive longer than some of the dead gods. Whatever he’s moving towards, he’s been plotting and planning it for literally eons.”_ _

__“What do you think he’s planning?” Chloe asks, speaking for the first time since she woke up._ _

__She’s got some color back in her cheeks, but her eyes are still hollow. I refused to leave her room after Max returned Chloe’s spirit to her body, so she went to raid the kitchen by herself, and she came back with several bottles of orange juice, a handful of bananas, and two huge cups of chicken noodle soup._ _

___A winning combination._ _ _

__“I don’t know,” Max admits, “He believes in something called the Great Filler, a kind of nigh statistically guaranteed apocalypse hard baked into human nature. He thinks our job--people like me and Rachel--is to guide humanity past this last hurdle and move to whatever comes next.”_ _

__“What does he think comes next?”_ _

__“Our destiny. Our true purpose. Some fucking gibberish. The point is, he thinks he needs us to accomplish that. I think this is the only leverage we’ve got, and we need to use it if we’re going to escape.”_ _

__“Escape what?” I ask, “You say he’s everywhere. You say he’s everything. How the fuck are we supposed to escape that?”_ _

__“He’s omnipresent, not omnipotent. He doesn’t have the ability to process what every atom in the entire world is going at every minute of every day. We can beat him. We can.”  
“Why would we want you?” Chloe asks._ _

__“Are you kidding?”_ _

__“You say he’s trying to guide humanity past extinction--”_ _

__“Ok, I’ve actually got to agree with Max on this one,” I say, “He tried to kill us Chloe. He tried to kill you.”_ _

__“Sean Prescott believes in a world ruled by pain,” Max says, “Only the strong survive. Only the strong deserve to survive. And the only way to be strong--he believes--is to experience pain. So, sure, maybe his vision does prevent Armageddon. Is it worth it if he takes every enjoyment, strips us of everything that makes us love and want to life just so the species can survive another few thousand years? No.”_ _

__Chloe looks out the window. Max and I glance at each other, a moment where we are allies, a moment before I remember William talking to Max about the terrible things she did in the name of love. And not just love, love for Chloe._ _

___You’re not telling us everything._ _ _

__“So, what’s the plan then?” Chloe asks Max._ _

__“I’d just like to point out,” I say before she can answer, “For the record. The last plan you had nearly got Chloe literally trapped in hell.”_ _

__“I think we should trust her, Rachel. I trust her.”_ _

___Well, fuck._ _ _

__* * * * *_ _

__Victoria did a good job. I can’t deny that. Projected slideshows of our senior class dance on Blackwell's brick walls. Every student has a pop up exhibit in the common yard, and yes, _The Tempest_ stage is a flawless replica, which is even more impressive considering she spent the entire show drugged out of her mind in the dressing room._ _

__“Remember,” Max says, “Stay close to me. Don’t stray off by yourself. And for God’s sake, don’t get cornered without a clear escape route.”_ _

__“I still think this is a shit idea,” I mutter._ _

__“We know,” Chloe says, “You’ve said so about a hundred times. Let it go.”_ _

__She’s still not looking at any thing. Her eyes haven’t lost the far off look, as if there is a part of her that her dad didn’t catch in time, sunk to the bottom of that horrible ocean of blood and horror. I nudge her, but she doesn’t acknowledge me._ _

__“Oh. My. **God,** ” Victoria Chase calls from where she stands playing hostess at the front steps of Blackwell, half-marching half-strutting straight for us._ _

___Please, God. I do not have the patience for this right now,_ I think, but it’s not me she’s interested in._ _

__“What the fuck happened to your face?” she asks Max, one hand going to touch the angry red wound still barely held together with crude sutures before Max catches her hand._ _

__They stand frozen for a moment, eyes locked on each other, and I have to cough to keep myself from laughing. I shoot a look at Chloe, the way I used to do, but she has eyes for nothing except the rising moon._ _

__“Prescott sent me to resolve an argument with a tiger.”_ _

__“Let me guess, I should see the other guy?” Victoria tsks, “Jesus, did you do these stitches yourself?”_ _

__“Victoria, sto--”_ _

__“Oh no. You’re coming with me. I am not going to hype up your photography while you’re over here drooling out the side of your face. Come on.”_ _

__Max looks to me for help as Victoria drags her away, but I just raise an eyebrow and mouth, wow. She flips me off after she makes sure Victoria isn’t looking. And Chloe, Chloe is still standing in a trance, not seeing any of this._ _

__“Chloe?” I ask, “What’s wrong?”_ _

__“He was there. He was right there. I could have seen him again.”_ _

__“You couldn’t have, though, remember?”_ _

__Chloe shakes her head, “All my life, the main reason I never killed myself was because I thought I’d never see him again anyways. I didn’t think there was a heaven or an afterlife or whatever. But now I know there is. And I know that he’s there.”_ _

__“Chloe, you can’t think like that.”_ _

__“Why not?” Chloe does not at me now, and the emptiness in her eyes turns to fire that makes my blood freeze in my veins, her mouth twisting as she says, “Why can’t I, Rachel? Go on. Tell me. He was the only one who was there for me no matter what. He was the only one who loved me.”_ _

__“I love you, Chloe.”_ _

__Just like that, the fire is gone, and I never thought how much I could wish for someone to hate me until I have Chloe Price looking at me as if I am nothing at all._ _

__“Do you even know what love is?”_ _

__“Of course! What do you--”_ _

__“No. You don’t. You have no idea. You’ve never known. Because it’s always about you. And how the fuck can I blame you? You’ve never had to work to be good at anything in your entire life. Remember Ms. Grant telling us leaving high school would be harder for us because we never had to learn how to work for something. She was right about me, but she wasn’t right about you.  
“I had to learn how to work. I had to learn how to move on after you left. I had to learn how to keep on living. But you, you fuck of to L.A. and within a year you’re making five figures as a goddamn model. I don’t even want to know how quickly you hit six figures. Brilliant, beautiful Rachel. And now you're back here expecting nothing to have changed. That you can just come back and sweep me off my feet as if nothing ever happened. As if you deserve my love. And why not? You’re Rachel fucking Amber. Of course you deserve me. You deserve everything you want because you’re the greatest, most loved, most fantastic person who’s ever walked the goddamn earth according to anyone who’s met you.”_ _

__She stops only because she’s run out of breath. She’s panting, red faced, and she’s right._ _

__“You’re right.”_ _

__“I--” Chloe stops, “What?”_ _

__“You’re right. You’re right about everything. I don’t deserve you. I’ve never had to work for anything ever. But I want to work for you. I want you to be happy and loved and fulfilled. And all of this” I wave a hand at the stage, at the display, at Blackwell itself, “All of this was supposed to be a way for me to show that to you. I wanted to ask you to come back to L.A. with me.”_ _

__Chloe stares at me. At first I’m worried she’s not going to say anything at all. Then something worse happens. She starts to laugh. Soft at first but rising in volume until she’s cackling and everyone outside is staring at us._ _

__“It’s like you didn’t hear a single fucking word I said,” Chloe shakes her head, “Do you even remember what I said on that stage? I do. ‘Excitement’s a mere counterfeit of bliss. These storms and these adventures? I would prefer to know that thou still carest for my plainest self.’ My plainest self, Rachel. My plainest fucking self. You remember what I wanted from you to prove you were serious? Your mom’s bracelet. I don’t want big gestures. I don’t want your undying love. I just want you. I want you to love me on the most boring rainy day that ever existed.”_ _

__“Chloe, please. I promise I will. Just give me another chance.”_ _

__She shakes her head, “No. Rachel, I--”_ _

__Max snaps into existence next to the fountain, knife in hand and four bullet wounds in her chest. Someone in the crowd screams. One by one, the bullet wounds heal, forcing the metal slugs out of her body._ _

__“Go north and don’t stop. I will find you.”_ _

__“You tried to bend fate for Chloe Price once, Maxine Caulfield,” the earth trembles under Prescott’s voice, “Have you forgotten how that went?”_ _

__“Go,” Max yells, “Run.”_ _


End file.
